


Three Lullabies in an Ancient Tongue

by orphan_account



Series: KingCrimson!verse [2]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: AU, Adultery, Angsty Schmoop, Catholic Guilt, Catholicism, Established Relationship, F/M, Historical Fantasy, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Jealous Sam Winchester, M/M, Mentions of Pregnancy, Multi, Not A Polyamory Story, Romance, Royalty, Switching, Threesome - F/M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-23
Updated: 2019-06-23
Packaged: 2020-05-16 23:00:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 25,455
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19327867
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: Timestamp toBut Gently Pulls the Strings. The threat from Ifreann has been neutralized, yet the kingdom of Winchester still needs its heir. Sam is intent on steering clear of that particular act of leadership, burdened with guilt as he already is over the events of the past few months, but Dean finds himself determined to make any potential child he sirestheirs. By whatever means necessary.





	Three Lullabies in an Ancient Tongue

“Bless me Father, for I have sinned.”

The confessional creaks slightly as the priest adjusts his weight on the wooden bench in the second chamber. A glimmer of dust filters through the screen at the movement, swirling lethargically in the scarce candlelight that manages to pierce through the ironwork grille. “And how long has it been since your last confession?” comes the warmhearted voice from the other side of the box, faintly tinted with the accent of his original homeland.

Sam swallows to alleviate his dry mouth. It doesn’t help in the slightest. “…It’s been three days,” he says eventually, his words a shadow too soft. Too faint. The guilt weighing him down more than usual, here, in this house of God.

The chapel priest chuckles a little at the admitted frequency of his visits. Father Lucca has always been one of Sam’s favorite ministers. His kindness and gentle nature are always a balm to the rigor and cruelty of the world outside. “You may continue, my son,” he says after another moment of obvious hesitation.

Sam wets his lips and takes another breath to stall, nervously tightening his clasped hands as he tries to parse out where to possibly begin.

He’s lied. Recently. _Massively_. He’d allowed two men to come to their deaths on the back of that lie—on the back of his _brother’s_ lie, but Sam went along with it gratefully. Helping to weave the false stories of demons and dark magic solely to save his own skin. The late Archduke Lucifer and Azazel, Winchester’s very own traitorous advisor, may have been evil men; murderous, sinful men that the world is better off without—but judgment has always been the purview of the Lord. Not mankind. And Sam willingly took that very judgment into his own hands, in an act of revenge for the personal torments rained on him. He and his brother both.

Sam shifts his position where he’s kneeling. Lets his guilty conscience fill up the entirety of the small chamber. He can’t admit to it, any of it. His confession would implicate Dean and Lisa both. Bobby too. Render meaningless everything they’ve fought for. Bring even more violence and blood and ruin down on the Winchester name. Put their own people in danger. Sam swallows back the justifications, like he always does, and moves on to the next point on his unending list of sins.

He’s been unfaithful—in body and spirit. He sleeps with a married man beside him. Behind him. Underneath him. His chest pillowing Sam’s weight and his arms slung loosely around Sam’s middle, their legs tangled together beneath the bedcovers like the conjoined roots of two elder trees. Intertwined in every way. And he not only continues to keep this man from his God-given wife, he actually _luxuriates_ in smug gratification at the fact that the king chooses to share _his_ bed each night, without fail. Even on the occasional evenings when Dean must perform his husbandly duty, intent on providing the kingdom with a legitimate heir.

Once every fortnight or so, he slips into Sam’s chambers hours later than usual, hair still damp from bathing and cock already spent. He slides beneath the covers and descends upon him without a word. Wringing Sam dry with his mouth or his hands or both. Never content to let him sleep until he’s spilled seed as well. As if the simple act of Sam’s physical issue can somehow make any potential child conceived that night _theirs_. It’s a ridiculous flight of fancy, borne out of sentimentality and romantic hogwash, but there’s magic in intention. And Sam knows more than most how far faith can get you.

“My son?” Father Lucca prompts, and Sam flinches so fiercely that the old wood groans underneath his knees.

“I-I’m sorry, Father,” Sam stammers out. “I only needed a moment to gather my thoughts.”

“Of course,” Lucca says understandingly. That calm patience washes over him the same way it does every time he finds himself here. “Take your time.”

Sam tenses his jaw and goes back to his mental list, a well-worn path he’s treaded continuously these past few months. He’s had impure thoughts. He’s had impure thoughts for the entirety of his life, even if he only became aware of how impure they were after King John’s damning admission. Lusting after his own flesh and blood. Taking carnal satisfaction from the body of his older brother. The way Dean’s hands grip at his waist, his thighs, in the throes of pleasure. The way his plush lips curl into a smile whenever they’re alone, full of promise and want. Dean’s body against his own. The taste of his skin— _No_. No, he can’t apologize for that. For who he loves. He won’t.

Sam can’t say a word to unburden himself, either way. If anyone knew the truth, they’d both be swiftly executed for indecency. He can’t— _won’t_ —admit to this particular sin, unwilling to let any kind of harm come to his brother. No matter how the heap of his own wrongdoings tarnish his soul. And they must. Every day Sam walks into this chapel and leaves without purging himself, it must get a little bit more muddied.

He carries his sins with him, back and forth across the threshold of this church. Over and over again.

But even worse…is the fact that he isn’t truly sorry for any of them. Sam knows he isn’t repentant. Not in the depths of his heart. Without that, this entire process is nothing more than a repetitive farce. How can he possibly regret his sins when Dean is all that he lives for?

Perhaps, the most monstrous sin of all, is the fact that he loves his brother more than he loves God Himself.

The most horrific, most unforgiveable sacrilege.

“I forgot to say grace last night,” Sam finally says instead. Another lie. He’d chosen not to, too content at the feel of Dean’s hand on his leg under the table to press the issue. Unwilling to sour his brother’s mood even in the slightest. “For this, and all the sins of my past life, I ask pardon from the Lord, and I ask penance and absolution from you, Father,” he recites by rote, but the words feel like ashes in his mouth.

Father Lucca pauses for a moment. “Is that all?”

Sam stares at the intricate metalwork of the confession screen and sees nothing. “Yes,” he lies again.

“Say one ‘Our Father’ for your penance and go in peace.”

Sam recites the requested prayer, both parts, in perfect Latin, and shoves away the lingering guilt when it doesn’t feel like enough. He forms the sign of the cross slowly, reluctance weighing down his movements. He’s about to force himself to leave through sheer willpower when a faint chuckle of laughter wafts in from the other chamber. “Father?” he asks, checking to make sure the older man doesn’t need any further assistance.

Though he needn’t have bothered. He can practically feel Lucca’s amusement through the grille. “You have the script down so well, I fear you don’t even need me on the other side,” he jokes warmly.

“You know that isn’t true,” Sam says.

“Your Highness—” Father Lucca cuts off at the accidental slip, “my _son_ ,” he corrects himself, though there’s no question to his identity now. If there ever was. Despite the pretense of anonymity. “You’ve been in here three times a week for the past several months. Not that wanting to divulge yourself isn’t a noble act,” he quickly adds. “But skipping grace over one meal isn’t much of a sin, even in the all-searching eyes of the Lord.” He leans closer in to the screen. Sam can almost make out his eyes. “By my count, it’s barely worth a prayer of penance.”

Sam finds an ambivalent expression curving across his face. “I think your peers at the rectory might find you far too lenient, Father.”

“Perhaps,” he agrees easily, “but there are worse things to be in this world.”

Liar. Adulterer. Blasphemer. _Murderer_. “Yes, there are,” Sam says.

He can’t redeem himself. Not here. Not ever. He can’t confess to anything. Not to another person, a fallible man with inherent flaws and agendas of his own. The risk is just too great.

“Father,” Sam ventures. “Is it possible for a sinner…to confess directly to God Himself? Privately? Without involving the counsel of a minister?”

Lucca leans back again with a genial sigh. “‘When it arises from a love by which God is loved above all else, such _perfect_ contrition remits sins and obtains forgiveness’,” he recounts from the Catechism. “Yes,” his priest says, “but only in that one way.”

A love of God above all else. Sam can’t do that either. He allows the hopelessness to finally wash over him. “Thank you, Father.”

“Your Highness,” Lucca interrupts him before he can leave, perhaps sensing the despondency in his voice, “you cast off the yoke of a demon’s will all on your own. The sheer amount of purity and faith that must have taken is astounding.” Sam winces at the undeserved praise, at continuing to deceive a member of the clergy. “Perhaps I should be confessing to you,” he says playfully.

Sam forces a weak smile at the jest, even though he knows the man can’t see it.

He leaves the chapel feeling heavier than when he first walked in.

 

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

 

Sam mills about in the kitchens for a while, ducking the few remaining dish washers and scullery maids as they go about cleaning up the remnants of the evening meal. Ellen had handed him a cold mince pie when he’d shown his face, with a look of maternal recrimination for missing dinner in the first place, but Sam had finished it far before most of the kitchen staff had filtered off to other tasks. Truthfully, he’s delaying heading back to his rooms for as long as possible. Dean and Lisa will still be locked in with the court advisors for another hour or so, and he doesn’t want to face an empty bedchamber by himself. It feels too much like confession whenever he’s alone with his thoughts.

The last of the servants quickly finds somewhere else to be—some kind of cruel irony if there ever was one—and Sam leans forward to rest his palms on one of the sturdy-hewn tables, stretching out the ache in his lower back from the long bouts of kneeling in a tiny, cramped box never meant for a parishioner of his height.

Though he’s only on his own just long enough to stew about it before he feels a pair of familiar lips against the back of his neck, then a pair of well-known hands gently traversing the planes of his chest—his brother as silent as ever, those long years of studying the hunt suiting him well in stalking all _kinds_ of prey—and he quickly finds himself urged upright, and then against, the broad body at his back. They’re completely exposed here, right in the middle of the empty kitchens where anyone could stroll in and see them, but Sam tilts his head towards the caress all the same, sinking into the embrace even as he voices a mild protest. “This is dangerous,” he says teasingly.

“I’m a dangerous man,” Dean rumbles back just as playful.

Sam rolls his eyes but remains closemouthed, more interested in encouraging the sensual touches than wasting time poking holes in his king’s ego. Dean peels back his collar to graze his teeth over the junction of his shoulder, and Sam lets out a breath of relief as the guilt lifts from his heart. Temporary, as always, he knows. The dark weight of his sins only allayed while Dean is touching him. While he helps him to fly.

“I haven’t seen you at all today,” Dean murmurs into his skin. “I came dangerously close to missing our arranged meeting.”

Sam smiles to himself at the reminder of their little deal. One uninterrupted hour of alone time together, every single day. Dean always tries his hardest to fulfill that vow as best as he can, even despite the silly, facetious nature of the original agreement. Sam loves him for it every time he succeeds. And every time he comes up short.

“I’m glad you managed to break away from your kingly duties,” he says.

“And what about your duties? I heard from Charlie in passing that Claire was a terror today.”

Sam snorts at the truth of that statement. In his absence, Ser Charlie had been immediately advanced to Weaponsmaster—the job she should have had in the first place—but Sam still feels guilty for delaying her career even that short amount of time. He feels guilty for a lot of things. Chief among them, being missing out on so much of their squires’ training progress. Charlie may be the one technically in charge now, on the field, but Sam assists whenever he can despite the awkwardness of his new title. As ‘Prince of Winchester’ still holds more weight than any professional moniker.

“She keeps making moon eyes at Kaia when she’s supposed to be running drills,” he gripes. “I can’t get her to focus for the life of me.”

Dean hums against the back of his neck. “Reminds me of a young me.”

“ _Please_ ,” Sam scoffs good-naturedly. “You were mooning after every flash of a skirt and pair of tight trousers you saw, not me.”

“I was _always_ mooning after you,” Dean insists, then he pauses for a grudging moment. “In addition to the flashing skirts and tight trousers,” he adds more honestly.

Sam leans further back into his brother’s arms, ignoring the revisionist history as he hums in contentment. “We’re moving onto flails tomorrow. I am absolutely terrified.”

“Wear your helm,” Dean says, more an afterthought than an order. “I don’t want anything damaging that pretty face.” He presses a hard kiss to his temple. “Or that pretty brain.”

“Ah, yes,” Sam teases, “ _that’s_ what you want me for. My brain.”

Dean chuckles in affection. “I do. I’ve been missing you at the council meetings.”

Sam stills at the unpleasant reminder of all the responsibilities he’s been shirking lately. “You seem to have been doing just fine without me while I was away,” he says, trying to keep the stiffness out of his tone.

“I wasn’t.” His brother lets out a contained sigh, like he’s been trying to avoid this very conversation. “Look, I understand it’s been…rough for you lately, and I want nothing more than to allow you as much space as you need,” he attempts patiently, “but it’s been damnably frustrating without you there. I didn’t originally knight you just because I enjoy the sight of you in armor, Sammy.”

“Really?” Sam asks, only half a joke.

Dean doesn’t laugh. He just lets go of him so that they can talk face-to-face. Like he’s disappointed Sam would think so lowly of him, even in jest. “Lisa’s brilliant with economics,” he says, “and I’ve got the military tactics and political strategy handled, but neither of us have your grasp of history. All my advisors claim they’re being accurate, but I’m not well-read enough to distinguish between one of them being honest and one of them telling a partial truth to get their agenda across.” He lets out a frustrated breath through his nose, and Sam idly contemplates smoothing the tension from his brow by a host of more pleasant means. “I almost caused a diplomatic nightmare in Folamh a few weeks ago because Davies told me that they were still at war with the next province over.

Sam frowns, pulled from his daydreams. “That isn’t true. They’ve been respected allies ever since the peace treaties were signed.” He can’t help himself from pressing further, even as he knows his brother is reeling him in on purpose. “That’s either bad information or Mick was intentionally lying to you. Which was it?”

“I have no idea,” Dean says in exasperation, practically throwing his arms up into the air. “I _need_ you.” He pauses for a moment, hesitating, then runs his bottom lip through his teeth. “I know you want things to go back to the way they were, and I understand your fondness for teaching weaponry,” he cedes, “but seeing the crown prince out on the training pitch every single day is…unusual at best. People are starting to talk.”

“People always talk,” Sam tosses back, petulant.

A small smile crosses Dean’s face, and he steps back in to put a hand to his waist. “Yes, they do. And it doesn’t bother _me_ , but _you’ve_ become stupidly uptight about it recently.”

“Right,” Sam replies glibly, “what _possible_ reason could I have for being cautious about gossip?”

“All of our dirty secrets have already been upturned from their hiding places,” Dean says. He leans in closer, waggling his eyebrows. “I’m a commonborn bastard and you’re my unlucky sod of a brother.”

“Not _all_ of our secrets,” Sam reminds him soberly.

His brother rolls his eyes as he shifts away. “Well as long as I avoid mounting you in public,” he says, dry as toast, “I think we’ll be okay.”

“Says the man currently fondling my ass.”

Dean leaves his hand exactly where it is for another beat, just to make a point, then meanders away into the larder to grab a hunk of bread and cheese for himself. “You’re plenty safe as long as all of your tormentors are burning in Hell where they belong,” he calls out into the main room. And Sam at least takes solace in the fact that the previous conversation seems to have been shelved for the moment. “Speaking of,” Dean continues, his mouth full now, as he comes back from the pantry. “The new Archduchess of Ifreann apparently wants to pay us a visit. A ‘show of good will’, according to her letters.” The look of distaste on his face makes it quite clear what he thinks of that. “According to Missouri though, she’s just insisting on making the rounds to show off her new trophy.”

Sam barely holds back a wince as he imagines what kind of trophy could impress a member of _that_ bloodthirsty family. “Some head she removed from a poor soul’s neck in the thick of battle?”

“Her new husband,” Dean informs him, though he seems amused at the violent bent of Sam’s thoughts. “Some baron or the like. McLaren or MacLeod or something. He goes by an idiotic nickname though. Craven? Crawler?”

The blood stops cold in his veins as the realization hits him. “Crowley,” he whispers dully.

Dean hums in accord. “That sounds right.” Then he pauses, probably catching sight of the grey cast to Sam’s expression. “Did you know him?” he asks tentatively. “While you were…?”

“No,” Sam lies too quickly. He grant his brother a fleeting smile that he doubts could fool anyone. “I must have overheard a member of the court mention the name.”

Dean holds his gaze for a moment, but lets the lie pass without confrontation. “Of course,” he says. His brother tosses the last bit of food into his mouth and wipes the crumbs against the subtle embroidery of his doublet. “So?”

Sam blinks at him. “So what?”

“Do I trust her?” Dean’s tone is conversational enough, but there’s a tension in his jaw that would be difficult to miss. “Do I allow Lilith safe passage over our borders, or is she as much of a treacherous _snake_ as her cousin?”

“I never met her,” Sam says truthfully. He thinks though, on every rumor about Lucifer that turned out to be appallingly true. On every rumor about Lilith that chilled his bones just as much as the whispers about the late archduke. …On what Crowley could possibly ask of him if they ever met face-to-face again, perhaps the most disturbing of all. “But I wouldn’t trust a single soul from Ifreann if my life depended on it,” he finishes coldly.

Dean nods. “Then she won’t be welcome in my kingdom as long as I live,” he replies. And that’s the end of it. “See,” he says with a bittersweet smile, “I do need you. You make at least half the decisions I affirm as rulings, even if they all think I’m coming up with them myself. Come back to the council so you can at least take the credit.”

Sam should have known better than to expect him to give up that easily. “Perhaps I’ll feel up to it in a few weeks,” he says, though he knows his brother doesn’t believe it for a minute.

“Right,” Dean responds politely. There’s a disappointed tightness in it that lingers in the air long after he’s finished speaking. “You’ve been to the chapel again,” he says after a stilted moment.

Sam tries to sidestep the oncoming seriousness with a weak attempt at humor. “Are we psychic now?”

“You smell like incense.”

He lets out a benign sigh. “What does it matter, Dean?”

His brother stares at him for a long while, a subdued flicker in his eyes that Sam can’t quite put a name to. “It doesn’t,” he says eventually. “Give the padre my best.” He turns to step back through the main doors. “You’ll be seeing him again tomorrow, I assume?” he tosses over his shoulder.

Sam doesn’t respond as Dean makes his exit from the kitchens. Too uncertain if the comment was meant to be sincere or cutting.

 

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

 

It only takes three days for Sam to find himself alone with his thoughts again.

The nights have become colder recently, thanks to the crisp air and changing leaves of mid-Autumn, and he’s been subjected to an unending litany of seamstresses and tailors working to fashion him his new seasonal wardrobe. They’d only let him be, finally, once he’d promised to dress appropriately for the weather. Though Kevin had to pull him aside and explain to him, in tedious detail, which specific pieces he had to select and dismiss to avoid offending particular parties. Sam still chafes under the stiff doublets and draped mandilions fitting his new station as a prince, but it’s gotten to the point that if he stubbornly clung to just his simple shirts he’d catch ill.

Thankfully, Dean had coerced him to come along for a ride earlier in the day. It’s one of his brother’s favorite activities now, sneaking out from under his guards’ noses for a stolen moment of freedom. And Sam was glad for the excuse to let Charger stretch his legs, even if Dean and Impala did spend half the time as two small specks in the distance. Gloating over some kind of one-sided race that Sam had made it deliberately clear he wasn’t participating in. It was hard to remain too miffed at his brother though when he had him all to himself. Happy and carefree under the afternoon sun, a brisk sea wind stretching the long clouds across the sky.

He’d tackled Sam into the long, prickly grass afterward, swallowing him down and spearing him open with his fingers until the crashing waves had carried their sounds away. Their mounts grazing at the edges of the cliffs, unbothered by the momentary interlude.

Sam shakes off the fond recollection with a subdued smile. If anyone asked him why he was walking along the halls, grinning like an idiot, he’d have no explanation to give. He’s still halfway into his daydreams, passing by the king’s study, and considering popping his head in to see where Dean has gotten to the last few hours, when he hears his name from within. Hurled like an insult, rigid and strained. Sam’s brows draw together as he halts in his tracks.

“…telling him tonight,” comes his brother’s gruff baritone, determination shading the edges of his words.

Sam creeps closer to the large doors in wary curiosity. He steps carefully over the stone flooring, trying to keep his tread as silent as he can.

“You’ll be casting more suspicion on all of us, Dean,” a woman’s voice says, though it’s muffled by the thick wood. _Lisa_. “Our position is already precarious.” A dismissive scoff then, that could only have come from Dean. The queen doesn’t let it dissuade her. “Sam is the only prince this kingdom has and yet you’ve _publicly_ announced that he is to remain unmarried. Do you have any idea how questionable that looks?”

“He was _brutalized_ by a madman,” Dean hisses, starkly blunt about the topic in a way he never is when Sam is within earshot. And he should probably be grateful for it. Even now, he can’t help the reflexive wince at only the vague mention of Lucifer. “A _demonic_ madman, most of the fools believe. No one will think twice if he remains alone for the rest of his life.”

“They will think it’s odd if you, the king, _allow_ him to remain so,” Lisa cuts back, just as sharp. “Especially with no other heirs.” Sam has to swallow back his unease at the truth in her words—and at his obvious violation, listening in on a private marital squabble—but he still leans in closer, afraid of missing even a syllable through the solid doors. Especially when _he’s_ the subject of their discussion.

Dean forces out a sharp exhale. “They will think that I love my brother,” he says.

“Yes, they will.”

There’s a long pause then, and Sam can’t discern what either of them must be doing past the faint crackling of the logs in the fireplace. “We’re careful, Lis,” Dean justifies eventually, low and quiet. “We’ve been careful our whole lives.”

Lisa lets out a terse sigh, and there’s a shuffle of heavy fabric like her gown is dragging against the room’s heavy rugs. “Dean, within the last year, a regicidal maniac tried to usurp this very throne and you _both_ came a hair’s breadth from being executed in the square.”

His brother says nothing for a moment, and Sam’s almost afraid he’s lost the conversation before Dean speaks again. “Not for that,” he insists stubbornly.

“Not yet.”

There’s a heavy clunk of glass. Dean’s grabbed for a bottle of wine, if he had to guess. “I will never give him up.”

“I am utterly aware of that fact,” Lisa says, and Sam’s stomach tightens at the pain in her voice. “Do you think me a child?” she asks pointedly. “Do you think this is just a selfish attempt to steal you for my own?”

Dean takes a pull from his bottle, a wet glug of liquid being upturned and righted, and then there’s a louder creaking sound. A strain of older wood from the far side of the room. He’s opened one of the narrow windows, probably staring out at the thick line of trees so he doesn’t have to face his wife. They become slightly harder to hear over the new rustle of the wind. The call of the nightingale.

“I am trying to do what is best for our kingdom,” Lisa says, more gently.

“I know you are,” his brother concedes.

She hesitates for a beat. “I am still without child, Dean.”

“I am utterly aware of that fact,” he echoes, flipping her own words against her. Stilted and tense. “And in case you hadn’t noticed, I am doing my part. _Regularly_.”

There’s another pause, most likely silent assessment on the queen’s part.

“You would ask more of me?” Dean prods.

“What more could I ask?” Lisa replies dully. The swishing of her skirts implies her movement from one side of the room to the other, her voice getting fainter as she nears the window. “This kingdom needs pureblood heirs, my husband. _Legitimate_ heirs. If you die before I conceive, then Winchester will never get them. And if the archduchess sets her sights on this land, I will be the only obstacle standing in her way.”

Dean let out a hushed sound then, one Sam can barely make out. An assurance, probably, that he won’t let her come to harm. Sam wonders if they’re embracing.

“Dean,” Lisa says, softer, _sadder_ , “if you go through with this ridiculous plan of yours, you’re going to get yourself killed. You and your brother both.”

“Your counsel has been noted, Majesty,” he says, his tone putting a clear end to the conversation. “Thank you for your input.”

There’s a tension then, that Sam can feel even through the doors. He gets so caught up in it that he doesn’t hear Lisa fumbling with the knob until it’s too late. Her steps had been too light against the room’s carpeting. Too silent for him to track.

He scrabbles back, making an attempt to appear as if he’d just been walking around the corner, but he doesn’t get anywhere near far enough away before she’s opening the heavy door right onto his blatant expression of guilt.

Lisa watches him for a moment, inscrutable past the more pressing emotion lingering from her debate. “Sam,” she says courteously.

“Your Majesty,” he nods in return, trying to smother the pounding of his heart at being caught out.

Sam hasn’t spent much time with his brother’s wife after their shared ordeal—the dark secret that binds them together in shrouded conspiracy. The blasphemous deception the lot of them will carry to their graves. He’s too conscience-stricken perhaps, to dwell in her company. Or simply too jealous of her station in Dean’s life. But being faced with the blatant evidence of her own hurt stabs at his innards, tips him headfirst into the very emotion he’s been skirting. Sam is wracked with obligation every time he thinks of the queen. Every time he thinks on how much he owes her. A life-debt, really.

He’s tried to rectify that by not thinking of her at all.

It doesn’t work very well.

Lisa continues by him as swiftly as she can, sweeping down the hall and out of sight without another word. And Sam jolts back into common sense the very second after that, recognizing that his brother could also step through the doorway any moment. _Will_ , most likely.

He turns on his heels and heads back the way he came, nearly sprinting back to their chambers before Dean can find him in the halls and realize that he was eavesdropping. Sam’s not sure how he could even begin to explain his actions in any way that doesn’t cast him as an insecure nuisance at best. An outright transgressor at worst.

Thankfully, Sam gets himself arranged over the bed with a book on his chest before Dean comes wandering through the door a few minutes later, looking weary and battle-worn. A half-empty wine bottle still clutched in his hand.

“And how is Lisa?” Sam asks nonchalantly, intentionally casting his brother onto unsure footing before he can think to question why Sam is so out of breath.

His ploy works, and Dean grumbles at being put on the defensive. “It’s that obvious, I take it?” he mutters, taking his crown off and flinging it onto Sam’s desk.

Sam relents to a smidgen of honesty. “You look like you’ve been trying to rein a hurricane into a sheep pen.”

“Surprisingly apt,” Dean says sardonically.

“Have you upset her?”

“Yes.” Dean runs a hand through his hair and slumps into one of the chairs at the room’s small table, taking another pull from his bottle before clunking it down onto the polished wood.

“In what way?” he prods.

“She thinks I’m reckless.”

Sam can’t smother the grin on that one. He closes his book, tosses the prop aside, and finally uses the excuse to sit up. “I generally think you are too, if that helps.”

Dean tosses him an exasperated look at his teasing, but there’s affection in it. “I’ve been thinking about what you said a few months ago,” he mentions. He rubs his palm over his thigh, nervous for some reason. “About running away from this all, hiding among the commonblood, becoming simple blacksmiths.”

Sam frowns at his brother’s admission. _This_ is the dangerous plan that Lisa had been so upset by? “You…want to be a blacksmith?” he asks in confusion.

“What? No,” Dean scoffs at him. “Would you let me finish?” He fidgets for a moment more, opening and closing his fists over his knees a few times, before changing his mind and reaching for another swig of his wine. A play at stalling. “I just figured,” he says eventually, “that there might be a better way to keep a finger on the pulse of our outlying communities.” His brother slips a hand into his pocket then, pulling a small mahogany box out of his trousers. Dean runs his fingertips carefully over the lid. A familiar gesture, like he’s done the same countless times. Like it’s a talisman. He won’t meet Sam’s eyes. “If we were to _infiltrate_ said communities—in a clever disguise, of course—we might be able to overhear some helpful snatches of gossip. Get a feel for what problems need to be solved. Find out what our people truly think of us.”

Sam slides to the edge of their bed, letting his feet hit the floor. “That doesn’t sound too reckless,” he says reassuringly. In fact, it sounds outright brilliant. Dean’s always surprising him like that, little pockets of cleverness that dazzle up out of nowhere and then lie deceptively dormant again until the next time. “And Lisa is, what,” Sam asks, “afraid you’ll be recognized?”

“In a manner of speaking,” Dean says cryptically. He gets to his own feet then, still clinging to that small wooden case. “She’s afraid _we’ll_ be recognized.”

Sam raises an eyebrow at his brother’s unnecessary vagueness. “That’s gracious that your wife is including me, but I’m not sure I understand the concern.”

Dean swallows hard, a rough, visible bob of his Adam’s apple. “She’s afraid we’ll be recognized while wearing these,” he says, and then he opens the box.

Sam can still remember, clear as Heaven’s light, that day that they’d learned the truth of their lineage. The bleak, inescapable reality of who they truly were to each other. Dean had held him later that night in their bed, fierce and possessive, as Sam had bitten back tears in the warm, oppressive darkness. As he’d grieved over the future they could never have. As he’d let go of the shining, ephemeral dreams he’d only just begun to taste. Knowing beyond a shadow of a doubt that they could never truly be together. Not publicly. Not in the eyes of God.

And yet…

The rings are stunning. Their artistry absolutely masterful. Hammered gold branches twined around each other to form a graceful, endless loop. Like they’d been plucked from gilded nature herself—and yet, somehow still masculine.

“Tree branches,” Sam breathes out, at a loss for any clever words.

“For our secret place,” his brother responds softly. He rubs a thumb along the edge of the casing. “It’s part of the disguise. We can pretend to be a pair of newlyweds moving into the village to start our lives together. It’s a solid enough pretext that no one will think twice.”

“Dean, I—” Sam pauses with his mouth open, his racing heart blocking all the air from reaching his lungs. “I don’t know what to say.”

Dean doesn’t get on his knees this time. He doesn’t tease him or vow his love dramatic and everlasting. He just lifts his eyes to Sam’s own, reaching out a hand to pull him to his feet as well. “Just say yes.”

And even though he knows it isn’t real, Sam can still feel the joy and the bitterness well up until his throat is so tight he can barely speak. Lisa was right about this. He should say no. He should nip this foolish idea in the bud right now. It’s too dangerous a covenant to play around with, both due to the queen’s quite rational fear of them being recognized and for the sake of his own heart. Their first engagement nearly killed the both of them. It nearly cost them everything.

And yet…historically speaking, Sam’s never really been able to refuse Dean much of anything

“ _Yes_ ,” he answers. Like a lovesick moron. For the second time in his life. Because apparently, they haven’t learned this lesson yet, and he dreads the Heavenly comeuppance that’s sure to follow…just not quite enough to turn him down. Dean plucks one of the rings from its nest, and Sam falters at the reality of the moment. “Dean, we should wait until later—when we’re outside the castle walls.”

“I just need to see it,” his brother says quietly. Tautly, under his breath. “Just for a moment, I need to see it on you.”

Lucifer had never shackled Sam with a ring. There’d been no need, not with the way he’d been locked up in the Ifreann keep like a prisoner of war. Plus, his late husband had never quite seemed the sentimental type. Sam’s never been more grateful for that than in this very moment. That he can savor this precious experience untainted by the stark tragedy marring his recent past. Dean slips the band over his ring finger and Sam marvels at the sudden, thrilling sense of ownership that seizes him.

His brother lets out an awed breath as he takes a half-step backwards. As if he’d imagined this sight a thousand times in the indulgent privacy of his mind. As if Sam hadn’t done exactly the same. “It suits you,” he whispers.

Sam can’t do more than stare, unable to take his eyes off his own hand. “When did you have them made?”

“The day after you were returned to me.”

He has to close his eyes against the emotion that answer elicits. Has to swallow hard around the lump of rock in his throat, for fear of letting anything embarrassing slip free. “You are a sentimental fool,” Sam chides his brother weakly.

“That’s where I seem to find myself,” Dean agrees, “when it comes to you.”

Sam lifts his gaze to his brother’s. Willingly drowns in the adoration he sees there. “Now you,” he says. An ambiguous request, but Dean seems to understand him perfectly. He twists his own wedding ring off and drops it into the open box, carefully picking up the matching band to replace it, and tossing the case onto the bed. But Sam stops him before he can put it on. Collecting the intricate circle of gold from his grasp and then slowly, reverently slipping it over Dean’s own finger.

There are no words for what that sight does to him.

His brother seems to feel the same, gathering Sam’s left hand in his own and clasping it tight.

Sam tilts his head down until they can rest their foreheads together, breathing in Dean’s every exhale. “I’m an idiot for agreeing to this,” he says eventually, not meaning a word of it.

Dean reaches up with his dominant hand to cards his fingers through the longer bangs at the sides of Sam’s temples. “It’s a good thing you’ve been growing your hair out,” he mutters fondly. “They might recognize Winchester’s new prince otherwise, and I’d hate for the queen to be proven right.”

He lets out an amused snort. “And what are you going to do? The people will know their king more readily than they’ll know me.”

“I think I might grow a beard.”

Sam makes a face before he can help himself. “You’ll look like your father.”

“Our father,” Dean corrects him smoothly.

“That makes it worse, Dean.”

Dean blithely ignores him, and Sam accepts the defeat without much of a fuss, tipping his head to regard their still-clasped hands. _His_ ring adorning his brother’s finger now.

It’s so much more elegant than that thick, kingly band of plain gold he wears in truth. So much more special.

“You _know_ ,” Dean brings up, far too innocently, “the last time I was married, we danced afterwards.”

He huffs out a breath of laughter through his nose. “I don’t think we’ve _ever_ danced,” Sam remarks bluntly. “And I’ve known you for, literally, my entire life.”

“I know,” Dean replies, but there’s more behind the simple statement than he would have guessed. Sam pulls far enough away to meet his eyes, to try and pinpoint that elusive melancholy. “I almost lived out my entire life with that regret in my heart,” he continues. “I will not make that mistake again.”

“Um, Dean, I’m not exactly—”

“Shh.” His brother seems to take his warnings for modesty as he pulls him closer in, trying to guide him into the correct stance.

“There’s no music,” Sam points out.

Dean breaks the romance at his whining, killing the moment in exasperation. “Would you like me to order all the court musicians up here to play for us?” he asks facetiously. “We’d have to execute them afterwards, of course, to keep our subterfuge.”

Sam finally gives in at his brother’s frustration—and at his macabre sense of humor. “Alright,” he concedes willingly, “ignore me.”

“I usually do,” Dean says with a slight tinge of annoyance. But there’s devotion beneath the surface. As there always is.

And Sam has to stifle another flutter of amusement as Dean tries to manhandle him where he wants him.

Sam eventually decides to help, going to grab for his brother’s fingers and then awkwardly fumbling them together when Dean’s right hand heads for his waist instead. “Oh, right,” he says. He’d moved unthinkingly, so used to doing this the other way around.

“Is it alright with you if I lead?” Dean jests, a smile wavering at the corners of his mouth.

Sam ducks his head to hide his own sheepishness. “Of course. Sorry.” He lets his brother get his arms into position, adjusts himself accordingly, and then immediately stamps right on Dean’s foot when he moves forward instead of backwards. “Sorry,” he mutters again, but Dean seems to take his misstep in stride. And then the next two as well. “I might not be very good at this,” Sam admits, after he almost trips again and Dean has to prevent them both from tumbling over.

“No, you aren’t.” But the grin practically splitting his brother’s face in half reveals that he isn’t much bothered by his lack of expertise.

They stumble their way through a few of the simpler steps, but Sam nearly breaks one of Dean’s toes with a poorly executed twirl and he stiffens in pain as they fumble another turn.

“ _Alright_ ,” Dean finally lets out on a grudging sigh, bringing them to a halt where they stand. He tugs his fingers out of their shared grip, grabs Sam’s left hand instead, and then slides his own palm up to rest on his shoulder. A complete reversal.

“If you tell _anyone_ —” he half-threatens, and then takes a measured step backwards, pulling Sam along with him until he catches up to the rhythm of their movements. Sam lets a subtle breath of relief escape him as he settles a hand on his brother’s waist. It’s more familiar this way, and he’s skilled enough not to step all over his partner when he’s the one in control. Dean lets them dance in peace for a while, though he’s back-leading just slightly, the stubborn bastard. “I had to learn both ways,” his older brother explains under his breath, though the tenseness in his jaw belies exactly how he feels about that. “Diplomacy,” he says flatly.

Sam can’t curtail a smirk at Dean’s vexation, even if he’s a little envious of how neatly he seems to switch roles—no matter how much he grouses about it. So Sam decides to play the trickster himself, surprising Dean by dropping him into a sweeping dip, and then breaking into muted laughter when his brother kicks him in the shin for it. The slight ache is worth it when he gets to pull the King of Winchester back into his arms, slipping his hand from Dean’s hip to wrap around his lower back. Holding them together.

“This would work better with music, I think,” Sam says again.

“This would work better with a different partner,” Dean teases him right back, a light-hearted jibe, but it cuts straight to the quick of him.

The shame rises through Sam so swiftly his _teeth_ ache, and he lets Dean take over the swaying as the strength drains from his limbs.

He’s seen Dean dance with his actual wife, once or twice. Another unfortunate consequence of the Winchester balls he already hates so much. He’s seen how gracefully they move together, how perfect they look in tandem. The blissfully happy newlyweds to any and all outside eyes.

But it was so much easier for Sam to resent his brother’s queen when he didn’t have to face her. When he didn’t have to see the evidence of her pain splashed vivid across her pretty features. When he didn’t have to hear it in her voice from behind a closed study door, or dance around her comings and goings in his own home, or look her in the eye while he revels in everything she no longer has.

Sam feels sick, even in Dean’s embrace, as the guilt tries to pull him down.

He’s stolen this man from a woman who loves him just as fiercely. An honorable woman. A virtuous woman. Who is now suffering because of him. He’s even replaced her wedding ring with a mockery of his own, all for a selfish game that Dean is more than happy to play along with. Not just a liar— _a murderer_ —Sam is a thief as well.

One more misdeed to add to his ever-growing list of sins.

 

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

 

“Bless me Father, for I have sinned,” Sam whispers. “It has been four days since my last confession.”

The wood creaks under Father Lucca’s weight as he gets himself settled, and he huffs out a mild laugh at Sam’s now-expected presence. “And what new sins have you committed in the meager amount of time since—?”

“I have stolen something from someone,” he blurts out immediately. Startling, without his usual hesitancy.

A moment of silence resounds from the other side of the confessional. Perhaps the priest is surprised to hear Sam admit to an actual transgression this time. “…I see,” Father Lucca says carefully. “Can you be more specific, my son?”

Sam chokes on his own immorality, even with how desperate he is to purge himself of this. Of anything. “I cannot,” he croaks quietly.

There’s another long pause as Sam watches the candles flicker through the thin slats in his little wooden box. There’s even less light in here than usual with how dark it is outside. Black as ink past the arched, stained glass windows. He wonders if the Father will think of him differently after this.

“Can you return this something to the person you stole it from?” Lucca asks eventually.

Sam’s breath solidifies in his throat. “I cannot.”

“Ah,” he says in unexpected sympathy. “And therein lies the problem?”

“Yes,” Sam says shamefully.

Father Lucca leans back in his seat, as if to ponder the situation Sam has presented him with. “And is this person suffering for want of what you have stolen from them?”

He slams his eyes shut at the piercing question. “I can only imagine they are.”

“And you can’t return this object?” he asks again.

Sam lets his head drop to rest against the iron grille. “I cannot. I _will_ not,” he answers, more accurately. He glances down at his unadorned ring finger, grieving the absence of the decorative gold already. “No matter what kind of punishment this rains down on my soul, I swear I cannot live without it.”

His priest pulls in a measured breath. “Covetousness is also a sin, my son.”

Sam forces out a chuckle that feels like anything but. “Then I should probably confess to that as well.”

“I see,” Father Lucca says. He grants him a quiet hum—disappointed, most likely. “Can you possibly find a way to _share_ this something with the person you took it from?” he suggests. “Each of you could hold onto it for half of the time? Perhaps, if you start a conversation, the both of you can come to an amicable solution.”

“Share it?” Sam repeats slowly. God, the man thinks he is speaking of some meaningless bauble. As if Sam would ever react so vulgarly over a trinket. Although, admitting that he’s actually jealously guarding a married lover would render him even lower in the holy man’s eyes.

“Unless there is a reason you cannot?” Father Lucca continues. “‘For this you know with certainty, that no immoral or impure person or covetous man, who is an idolater, has an inheritance in the kingdom of Christ and God’,” he recites perfectly. “Ephesians 5:5.” The Chapters always sound more reverent in his soft accent. “Does the ownership of an object only matter if another is lacking in comparison? Can you not find some common charity in the act of giving?”

And how can Sam possibly object to that suggestion? It would be incredibly sound advice if they were discussing a farmer’s backhoe. Or some contested bit of land. Not a living, breathing being with wants and infuriatingly stubborn opinions of his own. God, Sam is such a fool. Thinking he could find some succor here. He is on his own in this, as always.

“I will bring up the situation,” he says stiltedly, “as you have instructed. And I will do my best to share this…object.”

“I’m glad to hear it, Your Highness,” Father Lucca returns pleasantly. “As penance, say three ‘Hail Marys, full of grace’ for the original theft and one ‘Our Father’ for the coveting.”

Sam does so, the Latin tripping off his tongue so easily he barely has to pay attention to the words.

 _Sharing_ —he thinks again, his belly full of dread. He does far too much of that already for his own liking.

Sam has known his entire life that this would be the only feasible outcome, once it came time for Dean to wed. Back when he thought himself nothing more than a commoner. His best hope was always to share him with a spouse who could be informed of their relationship and, hopefully, be willing to play into such an arrangement. Because if everyone had been made aware of the situation, then it wouldn’t _really_ be adultery. Not really.

But Sam hadn’t planned on Lisa falling in actual love with his brother—though, how could she not? He hadn’t planned on Dean’s reticence to tell her the truth. Lucifer’s awareness of their family’s treason. His violent play for the throne. The complicated web of lies and deception they’d all had to spin in order to keep their own necks off the chopping block. He hadn’t planned for the guilt that brought with it. Or the more damning flickers of dark satisfaction Sam feels every time Dean bestows him with some small bit of tenderness and he catches a glimpse of Lisa’s reaction from the corner of his eye.

“Your Highness,” Father Lucca prompts, interrupting the sucking whirlpool of his inner monologue. “Is there anything else?”

 _Yes. There’s so much more you couldn’t even begin to fathom. Things you would view me as a **monster** for if you knew. Chains that will weigh my spirit down in death and for all eternity. _“No,” Sam says, hypocritically blessing himself with the sign of the cross. He’s half-surprised he doesn’t burst into flames at the action. “Thank you, Father, for all of your counsel.”

 

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

 

Dean lets out a pleasantly exhausted sigh as he drops down onto his side of their bed. He runs his hands over his face for a moment, then moves to strip out of his vestments with a determined sort of efficiency—the long day’s weariness only slowing his movements slightly as he sheds his heavier doublet before leaning down to tug at his boots. But Sam is too preoccupied to enjoy the bare skin being revealed like he usually does. He remains standing and clothed on the other side of the room, Father Lucca’s unsettling instruction from his confession still rattling around in his brain. As if _sharing_ the man he loves could bring him any scrap of peace. As if it wouldn’t tear him apart even more. As if Sam could survive with even a _fraction_ less of Dean’s constant attention.

His brother eventually falls back onto the bed in nothing but his nightshirt, having tossed everything else into a crumpled pile to collect later. The evidential bundle he’ll take with him when he slips back into his own room at dawn, strewing it over the floor of the chambers he’s supposed to share with his wife. Just one more layer to the complicated ruse they have to live by. The three of them, each unwilling gears in a clock piece that must remain ticking, despite everything else.

Dean chuckles a little, pulling Sam out of his overly maudlin thoughts, so attuned as he is to the rumble of his brother’s voice. “You think the chambermaids ever wonder about the mysterious man you’re secretly taking to your bed every night?” he jokes, settling in under the heavy blankets. He waits patiently when Sam blinks at him, a little too slow on the uptake.

“What are you talking about?” Sam asks distractedly.

Dean motions to the sheets with one hand. “They do your linens, you dolt,” he reminds him. “Have for years. How else would they explain away the stains?”

Sam lifts an eyebrow, even as he stifles the part of himself that admits there might be a validity to what’s being said. “And the conclusion you assume they’ll jump to is a secret lover that no one in the castle has ever seen?” He crosses his arms over his chest, though it’s more playful sparring than combative. “Is he invisible?” Sam adds with just the right amount of snark.

His brother tosses him a look that would be more at home in the brothels. “Well, it’s _that_ ,” he says, “or they probably think you service yourself constantly.”

Sam pales a little as Dean’s point rolls over in his head. He hadn’t ever really thought about it before, _but—_ “Oh, God,” he says in quiet dread. “They probably _do_ think that.” What other explanation could they possibly have landed on?

Dean just laughs at his embarrassment, more of an asshole than a king six days out of the week. “If it makes you feel any better,” he teases, “half the maids down there probably fantasize about that very image. I know at least three of the women think you’re fetching.”

“Please, _stop_ ,” Sam says, strangled, and his brother laughs even harder at that. He draws closer to the edge of the bed, though he’s still far too dressed for the lateness of the hour.

“Are you sleeping in your shoes?” Dean asks in lingering amusement. He trails a hand out to brush along the length of Sam’s leg, then he leaves it there. Broad and warm against his thigh. “Or would you prefer me to unwrap you instead?”

Sam tosses him an anemic smile for the attempt at seduction, but he’s still far too lost in thought for his own liking. Like his mind is still down in the castle chapel instead of up here with the rest of his body—even if his skin is already starting to hum at Dean’s touch.

“Sam?” Dean asks. But there’s more confusion in it now.

He takes off his short cloak instead of responding. His own half boots. Hoping that disrobing will serve as an answer when his words won’t come.

It seems to placate Dean enough, as he settles back against the headboard. Though the mild concern doesn’t leave his eyes. “Are you good, Sammy?”

Sam just sits at the edge of the bed, resting his hands on his knees. He doesn’t know what to say that won’t rile up their particular hornet’s nest any further. Dean’s gotten _prickly_ recently over his frequent visits to Father Lucca. And Sam can’t imagine his lady queen would be any safer a subject.

“ _Sam_ ,” Dean says again, and Sam turns to uncomfortably curl up against his side, still in his shirt and trousers.

“Are you happy being with me?” he asks tentatively, his question partially muffled by the thick blankets he’s shoved his face into.

“That is an idiotic question,” Dean says, as flat as dirt, then he trails a hand over the back of his head, running his fingers through the length of his hair. “Is this about Lisa?”

Sam shrugs, though he doubts Dean can see it. “What do you mean?” he asks, like the attempt at naivety could possibly fool his brother.

Dean lets out a snort, just as canny as Sam hoped he wouldn’t be. “Well, it’s no small secret that you aren’t each other’s favorite person in the palace. On her end, as well as yours.”

“Have I been impolite?”

“No, of course you’re polite,” he says dryly. “You’re both polite. It’s like watching a pair of diplomats attempting to equitably split a block of ice.”

Sam wraps himself tighter around his brother’s waist, trying to fight off the crushing pressure with the feel of Dean’s body. “Sorry.”

“You could—” Dean cuts off, then drops his hand down to rest against his back. “I mean, you could always make an attempt at smoothing things over.” He squeezes his shoulder gently. “If you’re so bothered by it,” he adds as an afterthought, though it’s clear he’s bringing it up for _his_ sake more than Sam’s.

The suggestion drops into his gut like a lump of lead, the ripples edging right along the perimeter of Father Lucca’s earlier advice. Just similar enough to unsettle him again. “You want me to try and make amends with Lisa?” Sam asks weakly, even as it pains him. His tone far too reluctant to hide this time.

Dean doesn’t seem to notice. “Well, I don’t think it can hurt.” He lets out a breath and sinks further under the covers. “And who knows, maybe it’ll help.”

Sam forces all of his discomfort back and gives in to the request before a _third_ party can come along and make him relive this same lesson. “Alright,” he says, and then he untangles his limbs from his brother’s so he can pull himself up to standing.

Dean stares after him like he’s lost his mind. “Are you serious? _Now?”_

“I’ll be back in a moment,” Sam assures him, as if that could possibly be the problem Dean has with this.

“Sam, I meant ‘pay her a compliment or something’ once in a while. Not run off and bother her in the middle of the night.”

Sam barely stops himself from rolling his eyes. “It’s hardly the _middle_ of the night.”

“That was not my point,” Dean huffs in frustration, though it’s directed mostly to himself.

“I’ll be right back,” he says again, and turns away from his brother to step across the large room. To walk up to the connecting, hidden door he’s slipped between countless times in the past. It feels odd having to knock for permission before entering, but Sam raps politely on the paneling, waiting long enough for Lisa to gather herself, before finally sliding it open. The way he never used to do.

Sam makes sure to close the latch behind him, ignoring the image of Dean his mind’s eye has served up to him. Probably childishly cross at being shut out of the private conversation.

The room still looks the same as he steps inside, Lisa apparently uninterested in changing up the décor. The darker wood furnishings. The elegant vases gracing the end tables that his brother never cared for. The stiff, ostentatious drapery of the curtains and the bedspread.

Dean’s chambers used to be as accessible and familiar to him as his own. As over the course of a shared lifetime, Sam had grown accustomed to coming and going whenever he’d pleased. He’d spent many an evening here, watching the then-prince draft minor proclamations at his desk or proofreading the documents himself when Dean invariably gave up due to boredom. Though they always kept the more amorous aspects of their relationship to Sam’s bed, for safety’s sake. Avoiding the prying eyes and curiosity of his brother’s servants.

Now, Lisa has steadily taken ownership of this room as Dean has all but officially moved into Sam’s. His brother’s aura suffusing and filling the space until it feels more shared than it ever had before. Dean’s accumulated clutter crowding the edges of Sam’s neat and Spartan living area. _Theirs_ in every way. An even trade, all things considered, despite the occasional annoyance.

Sam clears his throat to announce his presence, but Lisa doesn’t turn around as she finishes wrapping her dressing gown over her chemise. She comes off more accessible like this, in her sleeping clothes. More human. Less the cool, collected ruler of an entire kingdom, and more just a young woman in far too deep over her head.

“Back already?” she tosses over her shoulder, surprisingly acerbic. She doesn’t even bother to look at him as she ties the knot around her waist. “It isn’t even dawn yet.” Lisa finally grants him a glance, then starts a bit as she realizes who her visitor actually is. “Oh. Sam,” she says tautly. “I didn’t think— I was expecting your brother.”

That much, at least, was obvious. “I’m sorry to disturb, Your Majesty,” Sam apologizes with a slight inclination of his head. “Would you prefer I came back at a more reasonable hour?” And of course she would. This was a foolish idea to begin with. He’s already halfway to slipping back into his own room when the queen surprises him again.

“No,” she says, halting his exit. “No, of course not. You just startled me.” He turns back to face her, but he’s becoming less confident in his plan by the second, now that he’s actually here. He can’t seem to make his mouth work right. “Is there something you wish to discuss?” Lisa prompts after another silent moment.

Sam gives her a shallow nod and forces himself to follow through with his intentions. “Yes,” he says, awkwardly edging towards the room’s only armchair until Lisa graciously gestures for him to sit. Sam uses the brief moment of settling to pull his thoughts together. He must be careful, here. If he fails in this, he may disappoint his brother by losing any chance of mending their relationship. He might even damage it further. Possibly irreparably.

Lisa is still waiting patiently for him to begin, standing at the edge of her bed with no clear intention of sitting herself, so Sam takes a breath and bravely dives in. Easier to just get it done with than to draw it out any longer.

“I know that I may have been unnecessarily cold in some ways,” he starts right off, hoping that plain candor is a better way to ingratiate himself to the queen than small talk or false flattery. “I’m sure I don’t have to explain my reasons as to why,” Sam continues, allowing a tight smile to briefly flicker across his face, “but I wanted to apologize for my behavior. Truly. I’ve recently allowed myself to realize that this isn’t fair for you either. _More so_ , even.” He pulls in another steadying breath without meeting the queen’s eyes. “It’s unfortunate that circumstances required us to pull you into the middle of our… _situation,_ ” he says delicately. “Had I known about your prior feelings towards Dean, I swear, on my honor, that we never would have done so.”

When he risks a glance, Lisa’s face is as impassive as a slab of marble. Sam cannot tell if his honesty has won him any favors, or if the reminder of her own unrequited emotions has only driven a stronger wedge between them. “It is a queen’s duty to sacrifice her own best interests for that of her people,” Lisa says evenly.

Sam tries not to let his sudden sense of pity show on his face. “Your people are in Braeden, Milady, not Winchester.”

It was the wrong thing to say, and Lisa’s expression shuts down even further. “And through my marriage,” she replies, icy and deliberate, “the people of Braeden receive military aid, economic security, and political importance.” The woman’s eyes flash with barely dampened ire as she continues. “I may not be a council strategist, Samuel, but do not think that I am a fool.”

Sam immediately regrets his approach, strongly wishing he could remove the taste of his own foot from his mouth. “Not for one second, Your Majesty.” He ducks his head again in deference. “It was never my intent to imply as much. You saved my own life once with your cunning.”

Lisa gazes down at him for a long beat. “My reason for doing so was to save your brother’s.”

“I know,” he says frankly. “Thank you.”

Blunt honesty on both sides now. Good. Sam prefers it this way.

“Why are you here, Sam?” she asks after a moment of uncomfortable silence. “Did Dean send you in here to apologize to me?”

He laces his fingers together between his knees, uncertain how to answer the forthright question. “I came of my own volition,” he says after a moment. Technically accurate, even if he’s not sure if it was his brother or his priest who gave him the final push. “No ulterior motive. You care for him and I can’t fault you for that. Not without making a terrible hypocrite of myself.” Sam lets out a hushed exhale as he tries to steel himself against the words he’s about to offer.

He roams his gaze over the thick walls, a useless play at stalling, and his eyes happen to catch on the room’s only spot of art. The painting of the fox hunt that Dean had commissioned from Jess those few years ago. So that he could have Sam all to himself. A tiny, fond smile twitches across his face at the memory. There’s a particular way that the brushwork is stippled over the foliage at the bottom left corner—and it brings to mind hours of watching bright, dappled sunshine through the summer leaves while a beautiful girl with the same cheery shade to her hair rested contentedly against his shoulder. Sam can’t believe it had taken him so long to realize it was her work.

He doubts the queen would continue to keep it in here if she knew its significance.

Lisa is waiting with arched brows when he finally turns back, and Sam colors a little at getting lost in his memories. “Apologies,” he mumbles, then clears his throat before finally getting to the point. “I think we should try to… _share_ ,” he says awkwardly. Trying to adhere to Father Lucca’s advice as best as possible. “I can’t honestly say that I wish to spend less time with my brother or that I desire to give up any of our cherished nights together…but I must admit that it seems to be the only fair compromise. I can talk with Dean, ask him to stay with you for half the week.”

“He will not do so. I have made my peace with that.”

“Milady—”

“And if he did stay,” Lisa continues, tone as sharp and unrelenting as a warrior’s blade, “the choice would not be made from his own heart. Do you think me so selfish that I would force him from his love? Or that I would be content enough _pretending_ that he warms my bed of his own volition?”

He’s made an enormous misstep. Sam takes a moment to race through his thoughts, trying to figure out how he ended up on such uneven ground. _Where_ , exactly, he went wrong. Or perhaps it was just his own inherent unwillingness, doomed to sabotage any attempt. “He does care for you,” he says quietly. “As reluctant as I am to admit it, even to myself, he does.”

Lisa leaves him on the hook for a while, but eventually seems to take his reparation for what it is. “In a way, perhaps,” she relents, probably just to be cordial. There’s no concession in it. “Thank you for the apology, Sam. If it’s all the same to you, I wish to retire for the evening.” Her words are crisp enough on their own that Sam wouldn’t have any problem following her meaning even if he couldn’t hear the frost in her voice.

“Of course,” he allows, rising to leave. “Goodnight, Your Majesty.”

Sam steps back into his own room and firmly shuts the paneling closed behind him, restoring the opposite ends of their privacy. A flimsy pretense held together solely by their shared strength of will. Sam spares a moment to wonder if he and Lisa just imagine hard enough, they might actually disappear from each other’s sight completely.

Dean is waiting for him when he glances back up, propped against the bed pillows, his chest completely bare up until the elegant, brocaded material of their duvet greedily snatches away the unimpeded view of his skin. Sam cannot blame it. He would also selfishly hide his brother from desiring eyes, given half a chance.

He’s idly curious when Dean had decided to strip off his sleeping shirt, then falters again at the thought it might be due to jealousy. Like he’s trying to wordlessly remind Sam of what he’s missing every time he steps out. He feels another sandbag of remorse settle over his shoulders for attempting to trade the man away against his will. Even if it was on his own unknowing suggestion.

“Did you have a pleasant talk with my wife?” Dean asks curtly.

Sam huffs at his transparency, mostly just to cover his own insecurity, and finally strips off his remaining garments. He slowly makes his way across the room to burrow under the warm blankets, trying to stall for as long as possible. “And who is that resentment meant for?” he asks, once he’s resurfaced again. “The lady queen or myself?” Sam slides up along the length of Dean’s side, running a hand over the smooth skin of his chest. His brother’s tightening nipples brushing at the sensitive center of his palm. “Do you worry that I will manage to charm her away from you? Because I can’t imagine that Her Majesty holds me in any positive regard whatsoever.” He moves down the strong trunk of his torso, the neat trail of coarse hair leading down between his hips, banishing the unpleasantness of the evening completely from his mind. Sam had tried his best and, therefore, shouldn’t have to feel responsible anymore for the end result. He _shouldn’t_. “And I must admit,” Sam continues with a leer he doesn’t entirely have to fake, “that on my end, she may be lacking in some essential _parts_ I am quite fond of.” He emphasizes the statement with a playful grope.

Dean growls at the innuendo, so easily pulled out of his poor spirits. “Are you trying to rouse those parts?” he purrs. “For if so, I fear you may not get any sleep tonight.”

Sam answers him with a hard kiss, and the rest of Dean’s teasing becomes lost in a half moan as he responds eagerly. It’s almost surprising how quick the momentum picks up. They still can’t get enough of each other, this soon after their unwilling separation, and Sam relishes the excitement of it even as regrets the misery that brought them here. He doesn’t have enough hands to touch everywhere he wants to— _needs_ to—running his palm over his brother’s shoulder, then down his arm, squeezing hard around his thick bicep. Dean rocks his hips underneath Sam at the movement, his own libido just as insatiable, their weight pressing them together with every hitch and thrust of their bodies.

But Sam can’t seem to stray from Dean’s full lips, kissing him passionately, little sounds of need escaping on every breath. He grabs at the back of his head, running his hands over the close-cropped hair there, then moves to grasp the sides of his face instead. His brother’s pricking stubble lighting up the pads of his fingertips.

Dean lets out a low growl and tosses Sam onto his back so he can roll on top, still writhing above him. He sweeps a hand over his side, grabs at his ass, presses him down into the mattress beneath them—and suddenly Sam can’t breathe. He can’t breathe. He can’t get away. His arms, steel bands around him, gripping too tightly. Holding him immobile. Fingers clawing at his waist. Hot, wet breath on the back of his neck. The pain like a red-hot iron stabbing through his lower half. One vicious hand tangled in his hair, to pull and yank, to keep him from moving. Dean reaches up to slip a hand into his hair as well—the present overlaying the horror-flashes of memory—and a noise like fear incarnate tears involuntary from Sam’s throat, more injured animal than man.

His brother stills instantly, his own dismay holding him rigid. As pale and silent as a Classical sculpture. But Sam can’t move either, past the protective hand he’d unconsciously shoved out against the center of Dean’s breast. They remain where they are for an immeasurable stretch of time, frozen in position until Sam’s breathing gradually edges back to normal. Until he flexes his fingers against Dean’s bare skin. Until he can force himself to remember the familiar feel of his brother above him, the older man’s steady, solid heartbeat more comforting than even his own.

Dean doesn’t move at all until a trickle of awareness has returned to Sam’s eyes. “Should I stop?” he asks gently. There’s no disappointment in it. Only sympathetic concern.

Sam’s not certain which of those is worse.

He swallows, then shakes his head. Then swallows again when he still doesn’t have enough moisture to speak. “No,” he says, rougher than he’d intended. He doesn’t want to stop, truly. Lucifer is _dead_. The man has no hold on him anymore. Sam won’t allow this specter to continue to haunt him. Not if he has any say in the matter.

But he can also see into his brother’s eyes. He knows _Dean_ wants to apologize for what happened to him in Ifreann. As if he hasn’t done so countless times already, each one more unnecessary than the last. His older brother, somehow, thinks this is his fault. His self-appointed guardian. His protector. Taking Sam’s burdens onto his own shoulders, the only way he knows how. He stops him before he gets the chance this time.

Sam shifts their weight until Dean is settled underneath him again, passive and successfully distracted. “Like this,” he says, pressing a kiss to his palm and then guiding both above his head. Sam’s own hands a solid band around his wrists. Pressing them back to the bed.

Dean doesn’t seem bothered by the switch at all, thankfully. Though who could tell what lies beneath his endless shuffle of masks. “Perfect,” he murmurs either way, and Sam tries not to let the praise go straight to his loins.

He keeps his hands locked steady around Dean’s wrists the entire time; a clumsy, frantic race to the finish, more sweat and heat and sheer friction than anything else. No finesse whatsoever. Just the hard slip of slick-soft velvet. Their shared gasps and moans fading into the air of the otherwise silent room. Their most familiar duet. And it _is_ perfect. Perfect and messy and _them_.

Dean groans beautifully as Sam comes over his skin.

He bucks up his hips and jerks against Sam’s unceasing hold and groans exactly the same way again when he returns the favor a few minutes later.

Sam finally lets go of his brother to collapse onto the sheets, panting like a thoroughbred as he allows Dean to blow out the candles and gather up slack of his limbs. Their skin already starting to stick together as he molds himself up against Sam’s back. Neither of them bother to make an attempt at cleaning themselves up. The heat of Dean’s body is a blessed ward against the night’s Autumn chill.

They lie there together in the afterglow.

This, at least, remains unsullied.

He’s almost asleep when Dean hums into his hair a while later, stirring the few strands not too dampened with sweat. “I forgot to ask,” he says, an amused sort of self-castigation. “Did you fix things with Lisa?”

It takes Sam a moment to swim back up to full consciousness. “No,” he answers honestly, quietly, in the thick stillness of the dark. “I don’t think so.”

Dean lets out a breath against the back of his neck. Presses a distracted kiss to the skin there. Sam can’t tell if there’s disappointment in the gesture.

His brother thinks they are damned for their love. He has said so often enough. Little, offhand remarks panted after sessions of fucking or tossed out whenever their conversations take a turn for the philosophical—intended to be darkly comedic, but not delivered well enough to eclipse the underlying fear hiding behind his words.

Perhaps he’d hoped that a reconciliation with Lisa would allay their offense somewhat.

Sam fights with everything in him to try and disagree though, despite the sense his brother makes. He refuses to believe that a devotion as fierce and unflinching as the one strung between them could ever be reason for punishment. Surely, if the Lord took the time and effort to place such feelings inside of their hearts, then He meant for them to be used. Turning away from such a Heavenly gift would be the far greater crime in Sam’s eyes.

He can be damned for anything else.  _Everything_ else. He _will_ be, Sam’s certain.

But not that. Never that.

Or, perhaps he _is_ just the barrister his brother always claims him to be. Contorting logic into unrecognizable shapes to suit his own agendas. Trying to convince _himself_ far more than anyone else.

Sam should probably already be planning his next trip down to the chapel, but with Dean pressed up firm and warm against his back like this, it’s harder for the guilt to get at him.

 

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

 

“Do you remember our last conversation, Father?” Sam asks. He leans his forehead against the wooden wall of the confessional and savors the measure of privacy it provides him. He’s twisted his body so that the priest won’t be able to see his face, even vaguely, through the grate.

“How could I forget?” Father Lucca says in amusement, stifling a yawn as he powers through the late hour. “It was only two days ago.”

Sam, unfortunately, doesn’t share the man’s good mood. “And you remember what we discussed?”

“You had stolen something of great value from another and could not return it,” he recounts. “I suggested that, as a means to reconciliation, you attempt to share this object between the both of you.”

“Yes. I tried that,” he says weakly. “My offer was taken as an insult and I find myself suffering greater than I was before.”

A slight draft worms its way in through the gaps in the wood and Sam has to tug his doublet higher up his neck to fight off a shiver. It’s always slightly too cold in here, despite the weather outside. Even in the midst of the most humid summers. Sam thinks the vaulted ceilings are probably to blame.

“And this other party only wants the full return of their property?” Father Lucca asks, a stray assumption. “Is that why they were insulted?”

Sam lets out a heavy sigh, but he feels even more exhausted as he allows the air to slip from his lungs. “I’m not certain I know what they want, to be honest.”

Father Lucca makes a small tutting sound, like a mother would chide her wayward child for some harmless bit of foolishness. “Have you tried asking?”

He lets out a humorless huff of laughter. Bitter and unvoiced. “I’m afraid it will be taken as another insult.”

There’s a moment’s pause as Lucca carefully chooses his words. When he does speak again, he speaks slow and deliberate. “Is that the truth, my son?”

Sam listens to the muted, waxy dripping of the altar candles as he collects his thoughts, marveling, however regretfully, at the priest’s uncanny insight. _It isn’t_. “I am afraid they will ask for more than I am willing to give,” he says, honestly this time.

“Your Highness,” Father Lucca sighs, not unkindly, “forgiveness from the Lord is only bestowed if we truly repent, and then we do our best to avoid sin from that point on. You are asking me to condone selfishness and theft. I don’t know if I can do that.”

Of course he can’t. He can’t forgive him any of his sins, not truly. Sam just wishes he knew why he kept coming down here, night after night. Seeking comfort in this endless, failing repetition. “Do you have something you cannot live without, Father?” Sam asks. A genuine curiosity.

Father Lucca hums knowingly. “‘One’s life does not consist in the abundance of his possessions’,” he quotes, immediate and automatic. It’s more frustrating than anything else. Sometimes Sam wonders if the man lives his life by nothing more than chapter and verse. Maybe it’s simpler that way.

“The Book of Matthew?” he guesses half-heartedly.

“Luke, actually,” the Father corrects him with a self-aware sort of humor.

Sam yields a little at the sly play, though he’s still intent on getting his point across. “I’m not speaking of anything with monetary value,” he explains. “A person, or a cherished sentimental possession, perhaps?” He remains silent and expectant until the man finally gives in.

“My faith in God,” Father Lucca replies after a thoughtful moment.

 _Of course_. He should have expected that answer.

“Is there nothing more tangible?” Sam asks, despite knowing the question is fruitless.

He can practically hear the man’s smile through the grate. “I’m afraid not,” he says smugly. Or, well—as close to smug as a priest can get, he supposes.

“Alright then,” Sam says in amicable defeat. He shifts his weight to lessen some of the muscle strain, knowing they’re going to be here for a while. The wine-colored bruises marring the skin of his kneecaps seem almost permanent lately. “What if someone came to take your faith?” he proposes. A loaded hypothetical. “What if they stripped you of your calling and replaced you? If they took over as priest of this chapel and forbade you from practicing?” He curls his right hand into a fist at his side, trying to keep the emotion out of his voice. “Would you not fight to gain back your rightful place?”

The answer comes much quicker than he would have guessed. “Faith cannot be _taken_ , my son,” Lucca says simply. Easily. “It is something that exists within our hearts, regardless of all else. Being replaced by another would not weaken my love of God or my desire to help others.”

Sam sucks in a hitched breath, seizing on the foothold even as he forces himself to remain calm. “So, you would continue to act on your love?” he clarifies, desperate to approach this the right way. “Even if it wasn’t officially sanctioned by the kingdom?”

Father Lucca lets out a soft sound. “Yes, of course I would.”

“Even if some people thought you wicked for it?”

There’s a rustle of heavy fabric, as if the priest is adjusting his robes around him. Preparing himself for the theological debate. “In my heart, I know what is right and what is righteous,” he says. “If others thought me wicked for it, perhaps _they_ are the ones most in need of my help.”

Sam has to bite at the inside of his lip to stop himself from interrupting the man, trying to temper the intensity of his argument with a measure of control. “What if acting on your love of God caused someone else pain?”

Lucca hesitates at the strange question. Sam can easily imagine his slight frown of confusion. “How could my faith cause someone else pain?”

 _How, indeed._ Sam brings a fingernail up to pick at the splinters in the wooden wall. His metaphor is starting to fall apart. “I don’t know,” he whispers into the confined space, and it’s so small he swears he can taste his own exhaled breath. It’s stuffy in here, somehow, hot and suffocating when he could have sworn there was a chill only moments before. “I don’t know,” Sam says again, futilely struggling—always struggling—against the never-ending weight pulling him down to Hell.

 

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

 

Sam doesn’t have to try too hard to slip back into his chambers unnoticed. There are no servants about at this hour—the halls just as dark as the night outside with no torches or candles to light the way. When Sam carefully shuts the door behind him, only the faint moonlight outlines the sharper shadows of his furnishings.

…And the silhouette of the man that’s clearly been waiting up for him.

“It’s late,” the low voice drifts up from the figure sitting on the bed.

He barely even reacts, so used to Dean’s sense of melodrama. Though he had hoped he’d beat him back here. Dean usually takes longer, these kinds of nights. “Yes,” Sam says. He steps around the bed to remove his jacket.

“And how is Father Lucca?” his brother asks, polite enough that his clear displeasure rings through the false formality.

Sam doesn’t answer. He just glances at him from the corner of his eye as he goes about his business. Dean’s hair is still wet, the short bristles gleaming as they catch the moon. His skin damp. Sam can smell the clean warmth of it, even from across the room. He could ask the same about Lisa, they both know he could, but he doesn’t. Discretion and valor, and all that.

Dean watches him in return, silent, in the dark. “What’s happening here, Sammy?” he says eventually. His patience has finally run out, and Sam always knew he had a limited time on that. He’d been counting down the days, really. There’ll be no more games. Not now that his brother has decided to force everything out into the open. “All this _confessing_ ,” Dean ventures, surprisingly tentative, “…is it about us?”

There’s a long pause as Sam considers his words, plucking at the expensive fabric in his hands before letting it drop to the floor. _No_. It isn’t—at least, not in the way he’s asking. Sam had never confessed to their relationship—never  _would_ , even if Dean’s safety wasn’t on the line. “I haven’t told him anything,” he says. It’s the truth, and Sam’s own soul is likely damned by it, even as he can feel Dean’s palpable relief at the admission.

He lets out a relaxed sigh, and Sam wonders if he even realizes he’s done so. “That’s probably a good thing,” he says, obviously trying to lighten the mood. But Sam can’t bring himself to acknowledge the minor attempt. Dean finally stands to come around closer, the simple shift he’s wearing clinging to his still-damp skin. “If you don’t ever tell him anything, then why head all the way down there at all?” He reaches out to lightly skim over Sam’s shoulder—uncertain, perhaps, at the remaining tension in it. “You have a ridiculously comfortable bed, right here.”

“You were _busy_ tonight,” Sam says tautly. “I don’t like being in here alone.”

There’s another moment of hesitation as Dean retracts his hand. Though he regroups almost instantly. Not a surprise. “Well, I’m here now,” he drawls, sultry and low, and makes to cage him in from behind.

Sam shifts away from his touch, a deft sidestep, and uses the excuse to put as much distance between them as he can. As if there’s something on the other side of the room that needs his attention—though he knows he’s fooling no one. “I’m not in the mood, Dean.”

“Sammy,” his brother says, and Sam can barely stand the plaintive sound. The hurt in it. It makes him want to break something just to force it out of his ears.

“It’s not real,” he spits, “this silly ritual you’ve invented. It doesn’t mean anything.”

Dean slowly turns to face him, and given the rigidity of his frame, the tension has clearly migrated to him now. “It means something to me.”

Sam swallows roughly. Takes a controlled breath. “I’m not your spouse,” he says. There. That cuts to the center of it.

But Dean doesn’t react the way Sam had expected. He simply steps closer and reaches out to grab for his hand, grazing over his bare ring finger. “You will be,” he whispers into the dark. “When we go on our trip.” As if _that’s_ all it takes. As if a week or two of playacting could hold a candle to the ceaseless reality of their lives. Dean is only _his_ in the still hours of the night, and that should be enough. Sam had been certain it would be enough—but ironically, it seems to be far too _much_ now. How can he deserve everything he’s being given after every evil thing that he’s done?

The guilt surges up quick and sour in his throat and Sam yanks his hand away. “No, Dean,” he says bluntly. “I _won’t_. And no fake wedding ring is going to change that.”

His brother pauses, as if he’s taken aback by the harshness of his words. “Why were you in the chapel tonight?” he asks, simple and quiet. Sam shuts his eyes against the question, but Dean doesn’t give him an inch. “If it isn’t about _us_ , then why are you spending all your time flagellating yourself in some dark, dank little room?” The stiffness in his voice swiftly ramps up all the way to outright animosity. “Is the padre guilting you into this state?” he says accusingly. “Because I swear to anything, Sam, I will throw him out of my castle so fast he’ll forget his goddamn Bible behind him.”

“Guilting the congregation is his _job_ ,” Sam points out dully. “He’s a _priest_. And secondly, no, he’s not. He’s frustratingly lenient, actually.” He risks another glance at his brother to find him barely assuaged by Sam’s meager reassurances. A familiar scene, really. Once Dean gets himself riled up in righteous anger it’s near impossible to bring him back down again.

Sam forcibly lets go of some of his own resentment at the sight—though it’s exactly as persistent and stubborn on his end, if he’s being honest. They’re twin souls, he and Dean. Two sides of one coin. And, upon grudging examination, it seems stupid and immature to keep the truth from his other half any longer. Dean is the only person alive who won’t execute him for it. He might as well take advantage of the fact.

“I—I can’t divulge my sins,” Sam finally admits. Though he sounds listless and breathy and pathetic, even to his own ears. “Any of them. Every single one is a lead line back to you.” And he can’t—he _won’t_ —put Dean at risk. He’d rather burn. “They keep piling up, and they’re _mortal_ sins, Dean. Adultery. Blasphemy. _Murder_.”

“Incest,” Dean finishes for him, somber and understanding.

Sam doesn’t bother to contradict him. He’s probably right, anyhow. “And it’s not just that,” he says, unable to meet Dean’s eyes. “I have been avoiding Lisa all this time, just like you accused me of. Only, I nearly ran right into her the other day…and now I can’t get her out of my mind. The look on her face. The guilt I feel every _second_ just knowing what she must think of me.” He clenches his jaw. “What I’ve taken from her.” Dean makes a small noise of dismissal, but Sam can’t stop now that he’s started. “I thought maybe that was something I could confess to. If I managed to disguise it well enough. I could be forgiven for one thing—just _one_ thing,” he croaks, unable to keep the desperation out of his voice. “I stole a man from his lawfully wedded wife. Continue to selfishly keep you every greedy moment that I can. And even in victory, I still can’t help the jealousy that continues to eat away at me from within—”

Dean doesn’t signal his movements. He just strides forward to gather him into a fierce embrace, well before Sam even realizes he’s done so. Holding him firm and unwavering. It’s unexpected, honestly. His brother always _has_ preferred actions to words, but he’s rarely this sentimental without cause. Sam had foreseen another several minutes of sniping from both sides before either of them allowed any sort of gentleness.

He still makes a weak attempt to find his spine. Tries to hold out for the briefest of moments before inevitably giving up and giving in. He doesn’t weigh anything at all when Dean touches him. The brief release of his burden too sweet a temptation for Sam to fight against. He always succumbs, and this time is no different. He melts into his brother’s arms, even as he’s reluctant to admit how childishly grateful he is for it.

He can’t live without this man. He can’t even _breathe_ without him.

“You didn’t steal me from anyone, Sam,” Dean mutters into his collar, but there’s steel in his voice. “I’m a fucking _king_. I choose where I want to spend my time, and who I want to spend it with.”

“ _Whom_ ,” Sam corrects him weakly, but it doesn’t get a laugh from either of them. “I’m hurting her,” he says, a moment later.

“No,” Dean says in disagreement. “I am.” He lets out a rueful sigh, then leans further against him in turn. The both of them likely only standing by virtue of the other. “You’ve invented a fantasy in your head, little brother.” And any illusions Sam has of not being a sinner disappear at the erotic shudder that trembles up his spine whenever Dean calls him that. “You’ve falsely imagined that Lisa and I were wrapped in perfect wedded bliss while you were gone. Happy and love-blind.” Dean clenches his hands where they’re fisted between his shoulder blades. “We were not,” he says grimly. “I am inhuman without you. Monstrous, even.”

Sam isn’t surprised by the bleak admission. He still sees the images in his sleep sometimes, the sick heaving of a horse’s barrel chest, hooves gouging furrows out of the wet mud. Blood frothing over the raw, champ-chewed metal of the bit. Sam intentionally tugs away at his mental balustrade and allows himself to tumble into his darker nightmares. The sick crackle of human bones splitting and skin blistering underneath bright green flames. The dying screams. Sam had shut his eyes against the worst of it, but he’d heard everything. Every single revolting sound. And all he’d felt was _relief_.

“I am the same,” Sam whispers in return, but Dean doesn’t judge him for it. He’s the only man who never would.

There are no words for another few minutes, past the soft howling of the wind outside. Nothing that needs to be said out loud. Nothing they can’t read from just the implicit clasp of their arms. They know each other inside and out, he and his brother, better the other than themselves, really.

They stand there in silence until Dean shifts just the slightest bit around him. “We still haven’t conceived,” he says thinly, laying out his own insecurities into the night air. “Lisa thinks it’s because I expend all my energies on you.”

Sam twists his head until he isn’t speaking into the damp spikes of his brother’s hair. His whisper catches over the shell of his ear instead. “And what do you think?” he asks, trying and failing to ignore the thrum of petty satisfaction vibrating through his chest.

Dean doesn’t answer him.

 

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

 

It’s only once he finds himself ambushed and shoved into a wall, nearly a week later, that Sam realizes his brother has been mulling it over.

Dean catches him in the halls on his way to the training field, heedless and unassuming. In fact, Sam’s barely able to let out an _“oof”_ of protest before he’s unceremoniously yanked from his path—a hand spread wide over the center of his chest, and nearly fourteen stone of muscle behind it pressing him back against the ashlar.

“Um,” Sam says, quite eloquently, once he catches his breath, but his objection seems to be lost on Dean as he furtively checks for eavesdroppers in either direction.

“Listen,” Dean says quietly, “I have…” But he trails off well before finishing the thought. Caught up in some other concern, given the fog clouding his eyes.

“—What?” Sam prompts when it becomes clear that his brother isn’t going to continue.

Dean wets his lips, dragged back to the present moment. “An idea,” he says, unconvincing, as if his nerves are jumping underneath his skin.

Sam’s brow furrows a little, and he half worries it’s going to set that way, given all the recent dramatics. “ _Alright_ ,” he allows, stretching the word out in bemusement. “Are you going to tell me what it is?”

His brother just glances up at him, the pads of his fingers twitching slightly against his breast. “I may have a way to fix both of our problems,” he says enigmatically. “To patch things up with Lisa—between _all_ of us.”

He waits for his brother to elucidate further, then huffs out an impatient breath when he doesn’t. “Yes, alright. What is it?”

Dean refuses to answer him. He simply sweeps a thumb over his heart. “Just…trust me on this.”

Sam feels himself start to fold at the sincere request. The fact that Dean won’t tell him plainly means that his plan revolves around something he isn’t going to like, but Sam would do anything for his brother. Especially when he looks at him like _that_. It’s a sickness, probably. Some romantic, mush-brained disease that he never wants to cure. Which may be a symptom in and of itself.

“I do,” Sam says honestly. “I trust you.” The admission earns him a genuine smile, and he knows the entire thing will be worth it, just for that. Dean’s expression softens even more, like he wants to push the boundaries of their secret right in the middle of the hallway, so Sam changes the subject before he gets the fool idea in his head to actually follow through with it. “Isn’t Kevin going to be looking for you?” he asks, tilting his head at the sun streaming in from the arched windows. Lighting up his brother’s eyes a bright, mossy green. It’s barely the middle of the day yet, and the poor steward is probably having a panic attack over the king’s absence.

“ _Looking_ , yes,” Dean quips back. “ _Finding_ may be another matter entirely.” He flashes him a rakish grin at the silly joke, and Sam is abruptly, powerfully reminded of how young his brother still is. Hell, he feels barely grown into his bones, himself. It wasn’t even two summers ago that they’d spent most of their days sneaking away from their respective duties and hiding out in their special place by the river, wrestling and laughing under the trees. And now…here they are, carrying the weight of an entire kingdom on their shoulders. _Dean_ more than him, really, with the way Sam keeps shying away from his new title every chance he gets. _Unfairly leaving his brother to pick up the slack_ —his thoughts intrude unflatteringly.

But Dean doesn’t seem to be moping along the same lines, affectionately patting his chest one last time before stepping back. “Meet me about an hour after sundown,” he says, “in our chambers.” Then he jabs a finger at his face. Pointedly. “No confession tonight.”

Sam spreads his own palms in return. “I promise,” he says, and he means it. Though he refuses to dwell on how much easier it is to honor his lover than the minister he should be prioritizing.

It’s not as if it’s a surprise. Sam’s heart wins out over his soul every time.

“W-wait,” he blurts out, before Dean can fully slip away. His tongue charging ahead with a mind of its own. “I can meet you earlier than that.” Sam bites at the inside of his cheek, trying to curtail his eagerness. “After supper…I was thinking I might stop by the council meeting this evening. If I’m still invited, that is?”

Dean’s face blooms with barely concealed pride, and Sam has to stifle the rising heat under his own skin at the obvious approval. “You’re sure?” he asks.

He is. Sam’s been putting it off for far too long, really. “Yes,” he says with a shallow nod. “I’m thinking I might have some words to share with _Mick_ in particular.”

His brother lets out a sharp laugh at the reminder of their earlier conversation. “You and half my council, both,” he informs him. “Rufus nearly took his damn head off once we’d discovered the oversight.” Sam can’t help a small smile at the mental image. It isn’t too hard to picture the short-fused, curmudgeonly Lord Turner chewing the man out, innocent mistake or not.

“I’ll see you tonight, then,” Sam says.

“Yes, you will,” Dean replies. And he means it in every way possible.

He strides away with an endearing spring in his step, and Sam fixates for far too long on his backside as he watches him leave.

 

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

 

It’s the scented oil in their nightstand that first arouses Sam’s negative suspicions.

Dean had been in a surprisingly good mood throughout the evening. He’d spent the entirety of their council meeting fully present and engaged, without drifting into boredom or inattention even once—despite two-thirds of the discussion being heavily focused on trade tariffs. Even _Sam_ had to stifle a yawn once or twice. But Dean hadn’t wavered in his attitude, fully backing up every single suggestion Sam made with an enthusiasm bordering on embarrassing. He probably would have been concerned at the obvious display of favoritism if Dean hadn’t spent a comparable amount of attention and energy agreeing with every one of Lisa’s ideas as well. They’d even shared a brief look, once, a mutual curiosity over Dean’s motives—but the queen clearly had no more knowledge of the situation than Sam did, so they’d silently moved past it.

By the time the gathering had been disbanded, Sam had half convinced himself that maybe _that_ was the plan his brother had been speaking of earlier. A simple show of support for both of them, equally, in the public eye. As if Dean thought Lisa’s discontent stemmed from a lack of respect from within the court. Sam couldn’t say he agrees with the conclusion, having never seen anyone in the castle treat the woman with anything less than reverence. Sometimes all the way up to pure adoration. ‘Queen Lisa the Virtuous’ had quickly become a rallying cry over the past few months, and he’s seen more than one lady of the court implore Lisa to root out any veiled demons in their midst.

Sam wonders if the constant lying weighs on her as much as it does him.

But he’d been in near as good a mood as Dean once they’d finally made it back to their chambers, fondly watching his brother yank the heavy circlet from his head and toss onto an end table the second they’d shut the door. If that was the mysterious idea he had been so vague about, Sam can’t find a single complaint in it. Even at the unnecessary dramatics.

Their room itself is fairly dark, past the fire some servant had preemptively stoked in the wide fireplace, and Sam finds himself grateful for the warmth of it, as well as the light to see by—mostly because he’s planning on showing his _appreciation_ for his brother’s methods in a far more tangible way—when Dean reaches into their nightstand for the vial of fragranced oil that they keep there…and then steps over to the hidden panel that separates Lisa’s chamber from their own. Anticipatory. As if he expects Sam to happily trot along at his heels. _The very way he’d said he would only a few hours prior_ —Sam realizes. Making that stupidly blind promise.

His heart sinks as he catches on to his brother’s true intentions for the evening. He’d been foolish to think the solution could be that straightforward. That it wouldn’t test every fiber of his willpower, given the way Dean had refused to spare any details earlier. Though Sam’s mind does twist into a couple of lewd places trying to imagine what sudden need Dean has for oils with his very _female_ wife.

“Sammy?” his brother asks, a negligible hesitance in it that Sam almost immediately resents. The way it clenches at his organs from the inside.

But he _had_ promised. And it’s the least he can do, honestly, given how much Dean has already risked on his behalf. Sam shores up his resolve and reluctantly follows his brother past the threshold, despite the heavy stone feeling in his gut.

Even if he has no idea why he’d want him present for something such as this.

Perhaps Dean intends on making love with Lisa, and then him afterwards. Though he can’t imagine the queen will want to bear witness to their coupling. No more than Sam wishes to view the reverse. Truly, he’d rather stay in their shared chambers until Dean came to visit him in turn, as they usually do. Just the knowledge that his brother is planning on using _their_ oil to pleasure another already has Sam’s metaphorical hackles raising along the length of his back.

It’s a stupid thought. It’s just a small jar of lubricant. Nothing meaningful or special to the simple aid other than what Sam bestows on it himself. Overly sentimental as he is.

They make it into Lisa’s chambers several minutes before she joins them, and Sam settles into the sole armchair fairly quickly, leaving his brother to stand at the foot of the overly decorated, four-poster bed. He’s mostly just trying to take up as little space as possible. Considering that Lisa likely had even _less_ forewarning to the events of this evening than he did. Sam can’t quite bring himself to find out for sure though, and they wait in mostly apprehensive silence, the matching fireplace providing the only light in this room as well. The flames low and orange-soft, and casting wavering shadows with every pop and crackle of the embers.

Lisa finally joins them a quarter of an hour later, stepping through the main door—and then swiftly shutting it behind her once she realizes she has company, her skirts swirling around her ankles at the swift reflexes. Sam can sympathize. He’s barely used to the constant tide of servants underfoot himself, and it would be difficult to explain just what they were doing in here if an unsuspecting chambermaid happened to catch sight of the odd gathering. Lisa casts an eye over the both of them, lingering in wariness at Sam’s presence, before turning back to his brother. “I thought we had an appointment tonight,” she says delicately.

“We did,” Dean says. “We _do_.”

Lisa simply removes her jewelry and waits for him to continue. Her silvered crown. The ornate, filigreed emerald necklace and matching earrings. Sam wonders if they’re meant to resemble his brother’s eyes.

“I…had an idea,” Dean confesses, after a moment.

“Yes, you mentioned,” Lisa says coolly, dropping the heavy-set gemstones onto the dark wood of the nearest dresser, and Sam silently bristles at the knowledge that Dean had an earlier, private conversation with _her_ , as well. Just the mere suggestion of that kind of intimacy rankles at him, and he has to hold the tip of his tongue between his teeth to keep from blurting out something ill-advised.

Dean doesn’t seem to notice his displeasure though, his attention fixed solely on his wife. “We still haven’t conceived,” he says deliberately, “as you keep pointing out to me.” Lisa fixes him with a weighted look at the unspoken jab, and Dean lets out a sigh in subsequent surrender. “I’m just not convinced that an increase in the frequency of our _appointments_ is going to fix the problem.” He tenses his jaw, gripping tighter around the glass jar in his hand. “You said you thought I was wasting too much attention on Sam.”

Lisa finally cuts her gaze over to where he’s sitting, clearly feeling sheepish at having her private words aired out without her permission. “That’s not how I meant it,” she says hastily, and Sam’s actually surprised at the apology in her tone.

“I don’t begrudge you for your thoughts, Majesty,” he replies. Though it’s simple fairness more than magnanimity. If she could hear the darker bent to Sam’s own occasional musings, she’d be far more scandalized—and insulted—than he.

Dean takes advantage of the moment of tenuous connection between them, trying to bridge the gap even further. “Well, what if there was a way to kill two birds with one stone?” he offers. Still so damnably vague. “If you catch my meaning?”

Lisa frowns at the unnecessary riddle, before gradually realizing what Dean’s been getting at; marking Sam’s presence here in her chambers, the oil in her husband’s grasp. And the awareness dawns on Sam at nearly the exact same moment. All the pieces coming together for both of them. Even if Lisa is the one to actually say something about it. “You _can’t_ be suggesting what I think—”

“I can’t—” Dean interrupts, “—I _won’t_ spend any less energy on Sam,” he corrects himself, “but I can redirect it, if you’d like. Use it to our mutual advantage.”

“Dean,” Sam adds quietly, trying to break through his brother’s stubborn determination, “are you sure this is—?”

“ _Please_ ,” Dean says. His eyes don’t leave Lisa’s, even though Sam can’t help but feel Dean’s request was meant for him. “Just hear me out.”

Lisa stands stiffly in the center of the room for a moment longer until Sam watches her deliberately stuff her own feelings down, acquiescing out of duty. “If you wish,” she says emotionlessly.

Dean seems just as unsettled by the sight as he is. “No,” he says, kinder than Sam would have expected him to sound. “Lisa, you have to know that I would never force this on you.” He tosses the stoppered vial onto the bed and then steps forward, reaching out to take her hands in his own. “This—our entire arrangement—is only going to work if we lead this kingdom together,” he explains, “all three of us. You know the truth of that. Three steady hands on Winchester’s guiding wheel. It cannot function as smoothly or as securely with a single one of us absent.” Dean lets out a held breath, grudgingly admitting to his own weaknesses. “Up until tonight, I found myself at a loss during our council meetings. You must have seen it yourself. I don’t know the history of this land the way my brother does.” He spares him a quick glance, and Sam’s heart involuntarily jumps while their eyes are locked. Though Dean turns back to Lisa just as quickly. “And even when it was just me and Sam, before you were here, we _never_ caught sight of important subtleties the way you have. You’ve done so much for Winchester’s people— _our_ people—already. They are better off for having you here.

“Hell,” he adds bitterly, “we’d _all_ be either dead or at war if it weren’t for you.”

She drops her gaze to the floor, blinking repeatedly. Like she’s trying to hold back tears at his gracious praise. Her dark eyes glisten in the firelight, but with a mere tilt of her head, the tendrils of her hair artfully shade them from Sam’s view.

“And since there are three of us,” Dean continues, softer, now that he sees he’s got her listening, “I only thought we should share in _this_ as well. That perhaps the Lord hasn’t blessed us with a child yet because He wishes for us— _all_ of us—to do this together.”

Sam furrows his brow slightly, trying not to react too obviously to the surprising statement from his position across the room. Dean isn’t a pious man. Thus, this reasoning is…unexpected. He’s not sure if his brother is finally unveiling some deeper trust in a higher power or if he’s simply twisting Lisa’s own faith into getting his way, but Sam doesn’t say a word to call him out. Though he knows it will eat at him until he apologizes for it at his next confession.

“But if you cannot stomach the idea,” Dean says sincerely, “then I will escort Sam back to his chambers, return here alone for the evening, and I will never ask this again. I swear it.”

Lisa pauses to gather her thoughts together, swallowing before parting her lips. She doesn’t let go of Dean’s hand. “You speak of the Lord, Dean, but this—your _brother_ …” She looses the word on a pained hitch of breath. “This is a sin,” she forces out.

“Is it?” he cuts back bluntly. Even Sam balks at the iron in his voice. But Dean holds firm as he stares down at Lisa, so tall against her slighter frame that it almost brings an ironic smile to Sam’s lips. He tips a finger under her chin, forcing her to look up at him. “Love is not a sin,” he says, certain as sunrise—but those are _Sam’s_ words coming from his brother’s tongue. The mantra he mentally whispers to himself every night to keep from drowning. The desperate reassurances he doles out whenever _Dean_ is the one in need of faith. He gazes at his brother in a sort of awe, disbelieving that any of his consolations could actually have gotten through his thick skull. Especially when Sam can barely believe them himself, most days. But Dean doesn’t falter for a moment.

And Lisa eventually succumbs under his untiring attention. “…Even if not,” she hedges, more uncertain than Sam’s ever heard her sound. She shoots him a furtive, sideways glance. “I’m still sure Sam has no interest in any sort of lovemaking with me as a participant.” And he’s struck, truly, by the self-doubt lacing her words.

Dean turns beseeching eyes over to him, and Sam knows it’s his turn now. Especially if _his_ unchivalrous behavior has been the root cause of all this conflict. “Your Majesty,” he says, gingerly rising from his chair, “I cannot think of a single soul I would trust my brother with aside from you. If this _is_ the best way to provide Winchester with an heir, I would do my part willingly.”

And even though he’s only doing this for Dean—and she must _know_ he’s doing this for Dean—Lisa actually looks touched at his honest words.

Dean takes the opportunity to step even closer. “Perhaps we should start slowly,” he suggests, watching her carefully, giving Lisa every opportunity to object. She does not. Sam can see the very moment she gives in, turning into Dean’s touch and intentionally releasing the lingering tension from her body. He caresses her cheek with the flat of his palm, and there’s care in the gesture, affinity, but it’s nothing compared to the raw, indisguisable love he showers Sam with in private _._ And Sam feels brutally guilty over that for a moment, here in Lisa’s presence. He wonders if she can tell.

Sam watches Dean slip one hand around the back of her neck, dip down to kiss his wife. Gently. _Thoroughly_. The way they must do whenever they spend their evenings together. They make a striking couple in the flickering light—and Sam suddenly feels like an outsider in this, a trespasser in a sacred ritual. Though he suspects Lisa likely feels much the same. The unavoidable reminder of the _status quo_ hanging over their heads, taunting them even as they all pretend to ignore it.

Dean finally breaks away to reach up and undo the buttons at his high collar, revealing a tantalizing slice of his neck. Thank God. Sam’s not sure how he would react if the queen had taken the initiative to undress him. The possessive familiarity in such a gesture. A frisson of insecure jealousy runs down Sam’s spine, and he runs a nervous thumb over his own knuckles as he stands sentinel to the proceedings. Unsure of his exact place in this moment.

His brother continues to strip off the stiff, dark velvet of his doublet. Pulls his loose shirt from his trousers. Slips the thin material over his head to stand bare chested before them both, the shifting shadows carving definition over his skin. The taut peaks of his nipples, rounded muscles of his chest, the solid block of his torso merging into strong hips. The sinuous curve of his smooth, broad back. Sam’s fingers flex at the sight, yearning to touch the way they’ve been trained to over so many years. Dean’s body is his birthright. It always has been—except when in Lisa’s presence—and Sam’s cock twitches in want even as he practices the utmost restraint.

Lisa seems to be holding herself back out of a similar courtesy, arms remaining limp at her sides instead of reaching out to take advantage of Dean’s clear offer. Her eyes flick briefly to her right, not quite all the way to Sam’s face, but far enough that her hesitancy reads clearly. Dean picks up on it as well, twisting to pin Sam with a look. His silent request transparently obvious. They’ve never needed words to understand each other, and Sam tentatively moves to undo his own layers despite the flutter of self-consciousness, bolstered by just the awareness of his brother’s attention on him at last. He can feel the weight of Dean’s gaze as he slips the draped outer coat from his shoulders. The clasps of his own uncomfortable doublet. He falters for a moment when he’s down to just his shirtsleeves, at the thought of baring himself to unfamiliar judgment, before finally divesting himself of this as well. He sucks in far too tremulous a breath as he waits, barely able to hold himself still at the weighted assessment.

But Dean just slowly drags his eyes down the length of his body, fixating on the waistline of his trousers, and Sam nearly forgets Lisa entirely. Feeling his blood start to heat at the way his brother’s pupils blow black in the low light.

Their taking the lead seems to have heartened Lisa enough, adding surety to her posture. Though her fleeting gaze lands on the breadth of his shoulders before slipping to his waist as well, and Sam finds himself shifting under the unexpected attention. Interest—perhaps even a detached kind of attraction—without the heat of passion behind it. The sensation is…curious to say the least, but it doesn’t last long. Lisa soon glances away to attend to her own state of dress, pausing only for a moment before her delicate fingers are carefully plucking at the laces adorning the front of her bodice.

“Do you need—?” Dean asks, hushed. But she simply shakes her head. And it sounds odd, somehow, the rough cadence of his voice. Incongruous in this alien space they’ve stumbled into. Or created. The silence half the magic. As if one utterance is all it would take to pop this fragile soap bubble of a moment.

She moves with a determined sort of grace, rolling her shoulders to slip out of her heavy gown, and leaving her in a pale chemise so fine it’s nearly sheer.

Sam feels himself start to color at the erotic sight, but Dean just reaches back to pull a silver pin from Lisa’s careful updo, letting her hair tumble down to fall in dark, glossy waves over her shoulders. She’s astonishingly beautiful like this. Hell, the woman looks like a Botticelli painting come to life, and Sam swallows back the taste of acid. He can never be that for Dean. That lithe, soft-limbed nymph who can so easily fit into his arms. He winces slightly at the thought—the harsh truth of it—as he watches the man he loves worship another. Dean kisses her again, holding Lisa carefully as he leads her backwards to the bed.

Leaving Sam even further away from the pair with every step. Uncertain, where he stands separate at the edge of the room.

He tries as hard as he can to remain accommodating, even as he fights back the stiff feeling of insecurity creeping up his gullet. Terrified that he’s secretly unwanted here. That he could slip away into his own chambers and his absence not even be noticed.

But Dean turns to him the moment he gets Lisa settled onto the edge of the bedcovers, glancing back over his shoulder to take him in, wholly. A pang of contrition flashes over his features for a moment before it’s gone again. Hidden beneath the heavy sensuality in his bedroom gaze. He holds his hand out, leaving it hanging still in the air for a long while. Until Sam finally takes the hint, cautiously edging closer to him. Until he reaches for Dean’s extended fingers and allows himself to be drawn into his brother’s embrace. Each inhale feeling too tight as they pass through his chest.

Dean slowly, tenderly places his lips against the hollow of his throat, then drags them along the line of Sam’s clavicle, and he can’t help his reaction. His eyes close of their own volition, his head tilting back to allow him further access. An ingrained reflex at his brother’s touch. Animal.  _Instinctual_. Dean’s attentions quickly become more passionate—and Sam knows it’s just his imagination, but he swears he can feel her on his brother’s tongue. In the damp trail he’s leaving across his overheated skin. It sends a bolt of spite through his chest, even as he marks the weight of the queen’s eyes on them. Together.

He wonders what she sees when she looks at them. What contortions of their bodies she imagines in the thick of night, alone in her massive bed.

The smug selfishness of that thought niggles at him, and Sam tries harder to hold his reactions in check, tries to stop fucking _sinning_ —if just for Lisa’s sake. But Dean stretches up to press an open-mouthed kiss to the sensitive curve of his neck, just under his jaw, and the breath leaves Sam’s lungs without his permission. He clenches his hand into a hard fist at his brother’s side, knuckles digging into the firm skin of his waist. Trying not to lose himself in the sensation until Dean drags a rough hand over the plane of his chest, the spread of his ribs, sliding down to settle at the small of his back and pull him in tighter with an uncompromising yank of his arm. His fingers stroking maddeningly over the dip of Sam’s spine.

Sam chokes on the meager sound that escapes him. The needy thrill racing through his veins. Then colors in immediate awareness of his actions, self-consciously reminded of Lisa’s gaze on him—on _them_ —every second that passes.

He’d forgotten himself. He won’t do it again.

Sam gently pushes away from his brother, silently adamant, even as his heart twinges to do it. He grants Dean a rueful shade of a smile, hoping that his intent comes across. And it must, because Dean backs away easily. Reminded of their goals here. No hurt feelings on his end.

He turns back to his wife, tosses her a promising smirk as well, before he reaches down to deftly undo the laces of his trousers. Tugging his pants over the curve of his ass. Sam has to hold his breath as he peels them from the bowed length of his legs. Lisa’s fingers twitch at her side, but she doesn’t make a move to divest herself until Sam places a hand over the laces of his own fly.

Lisa finishes undressing before he does, and by the time Sam stands upright again, she’s as nude as he is.

She’s beautiful. Taut, toned curves. Supple, tan skin only interrupted by the duskier peaks of her nipples and the raven thatch of hair at her sex. She’s flawless, really. Even if Sam doesn’t feel much of any pull towards her the way he does with Dean. _Detached attraction_ —he thinks again. Most accurate way to put it.

Dean eases onto the bed himself, knees sinking into the soft down, and Sam settles his gaze on the thick swing of his cock. The spread of his thighs. Easier than watching his face. He slides both his palms up Lisa’s sides, slowly crawling over her until he can drop his head to suckle at one rounded breast. Then the other. Lisa throws her head back against the pillows at the action, revealing the long stretch of her neck, and Sam hovers halfway over the royal bed until Dean blindly reaches a hand back to tug him in closer as well.

He and Lisa are the only ones here who haven’t laid a finger on each other, not even brushing up against the milder forms of foreplay. Still, Sam does not make any move to kiss her. He does not think she would wish to kiss him.

But refusing to make any contact at all, on either of their parts, may undermine the entire purpose of this evening.

Sam attempts for an olive branch, reaching out to lightly rest a hand on her bare leg. Nothing more than that. She stiffens almost immediately. Lisa doesn’t have any cross words for him, no insult for his forwardness. She doesn’t even purposefully pull away from his touch, remaining uncomfortably still out of the same sense of tact—but Sam removes his hand a mere moment later, regardless. Letting it settle low and familiar on Dean’s back instead. He’s welcomed with an encouraging moan.

Sam still isn’t exactly certain of his involvement in all of this. If he’s supposed to be waiting his turn or was simply invited in here to watch from a short distance, expected to take care of himself. And perhaps his brother catches his hesitancy, because it isn’t until Dean fumbles around for, and then wordlessly presses their small jar of oil into his palm, that Sam gradually understands what he’s meant to do.

 _Oh._ Of course.

That makes the most sense, even if he’s never _actually…_

Sam ignores the nervous thrum pulsing under his skin as he turns the vial over in his hand, the glass still warm from Dean’s earlier body heat. He’d feel no qualms about trying something new like this if it was just them, alone in their bed, using the venture to further deepen their relationship, but with Lisa here… Sam wonders if this will alter Dean in his wife’s eyes as well—then he scoffs derisively at his own thought. _As well as… **what?** His own_? Sam lowers his attention back to the sensuous roll and flex of Dean’s back as he descends upon Lisa’s sex, and has to shake off the unwanted sense of guilty reluctance that comes over him.

It’s such a strange, knee-jerk reaction. As if such a simple switch in positions could change anything about them at all.

There is no hint of weakness in it when he has Dean helplessly pinned to the bed and desperately straining for release. The cant of Sam’s hips all that stands between his brother’s mounting need and the promise of pleasure. And, even past that, he understands the necessity of the action, the decision to provide a physical barrier between his lover and his wife. Sam wonders if Dean thinks they will devolve into childish, petty jealousy if they actually have to touch each other. He wonders if they won’t, either way.

Or, perhaps Dean doesn’t want to risk courting another one of Sam’s ever more recent Lucifer flashes. It’s an unfortunate possibility. And Sam must admit, he’d rather avoid Lisa being party to his hateful moments of weakness as well. The lingering shame he can’t seem to shake, even in the aftermath. He can barely stomach the stray assumptions the rest of the court must concoct behind his back. The damning conclusions pieced together from strings of half-truths.

Sam forces himself back into the present— _no time for dwelling on that now_ —and removes his fingers from his brother’s skin in order to unstopper the bottle. He tips the oil into his right hand, fully coating his fingers until they’re slippery with the warm smell of spices and musk. His cock jerks at the scent. The expectation itself sending a low whine of arousal winding through him. Sam wets his lips, allowing Dean to continue distracting himself with the taste of his wife’s body, before replacing his dry hand over the spread of his lower back. Meant as a reassurance, though he pauses at the unexpected knot of muscle he finds under his fingertips.

There’s a stiffness to the older man’s movements, a tension in his frame that reads of bridled discomfort. Sam knows Dean had countless lovers before him. Men, as well as women. He’d made no secret of it. Hell, it used to drive him mad the way Dean would flaunt every one of his conquests under his nose as Sam stewed in envy and teenage dramatics. But he can’t help but wonder if his brother has ever done _this_ before.

He smiles to himself, a cynical stretch of humor quirking up his lips. They’ll be two peas in a pod, then. In this. More _firsts_ than he’d expected tonight.

Sam leans down to press a kiss to the first knob of his spine, and Dean lets out a sound of appreciation that’s solely meant for him. Lisa gasps quietly at his brother’s hum, and Sam reaches his oiled fingers back between the muscled globes of his ass, carefully nudging against the puckered whorl of flesh. He presses firm, a smooth roll of his fingertips, just assertive enough for Dean to adjust to the feel, before slipping one inside. Hot, slick softness of his inner walls, the tight ring clenching around even that one slim digit.

Dean freezes for a second, his breathing intentionally steady as he adjusts to the feel of Sam inside of him, his asshole involuntarily clutching at the wider knob of his knuckle, sucking and fluttering until Sam’s pressed tight to the web of his hand. Lisa runs her hands over his hair, the back of his head. Long, soothing strokes until Dean starts moving again. Until he turns his head to growl and nip high at her inner thigh. Sam slips a second finger inside at the distraction, curling and crooking them in an attempt to hit that magical spot inside of him his brother always manages to. Trying to make it good for Dean based on what _he_ likes. Ignoring the throbbing ache of his own cock hardening in anticipation. In unexpected desire, even.

He twists his wrist, fucks his fingers in and out for a good long while to make sure Dean is slicked and ready for him, but he remains tense through it all. Barely even the slightest give to the muscle Sam’s been working, no matter what he tries. Until he eventually has to admit there might not be anything he can do to change that. At least for tonight, anyway. Not to mention that Lisa’s legs have spent the last several minutes clenching tighter and tighter around Dean’s shoulders until she finally erupts with a wild cry. Clutching at the back of his brother’s neck, the headboard, the rumpled bedcovers at her hips. Lisa slumps back against her pillows, primed and ready to go, and even if Dean _isn’t_ , Sam’s run out of time to delay any longer.

He slicks his own cock up as hastily as possible, both hands gripping at Dean’s flanks all he grants as a warning before he’s lining them up and pushing inside, and Sam can’t hold back a sound of pained relief as his brother’s hole swallows the tip of his erection. He thrusts forward with a sharp punch of his hips, probably too hard, too fast, but he can’t help it. Can’t help driving inside the gripping, welcoming heat. Everything he’s been hungering for since they started this.

“ _Ah_ ,” Dean hisses under his breath, nearly separating them again with an involuntary jerk of his own hips. “Fucking _Christ_.”

Sam freezes, waiting for the joke, the grumbled, _“—like being impaled by a fucking javelin,”_ that never comes. Dean simply holds himself forcibly still until he gets his bearings, then finally nods his head for him to continue, a drop of sweat sliding down the bridge of his nose to fall and land high on Lisa’s chest.

Sam obeys instantly, steadily pushing forward until he’s buried to the hilt. Honestly not sure he could have held back if Dean had asked him to.

It’s odd, in a sense. He hasn’t performed this act in this exact way since Jess. Dean prefers to play the traditional role in their relationship, and Sam is never left unsatisfied enough to complain—far from it, to put it bluntly. But this is different from his limited memories. Tighter. Not quite as wet, even with the added oil. _Better_ —Sam thinks with a shaky breath. But that might just be because it’s _Dean_.

His brother pulls in a breath of his own, reaching down to fold Lisa’s knees up on either side of his waist. Sam holds still, as Dean carefully enters his wife himself, and Lisa gasps at the feel of it. It’s more erotic than Sam would have thought, the hesitant, unsure fumbling. There’s no sound in the room other than their hitched breathing. Dean’s soft grunts. The rustle of their shifting bodies. The firelight highlighting the light sheen of sweat on their skin.

Sam pulls back just enough to shove forward again, trying to set an unsteady rhythm between all three of them. His primary focus is on Dean— _always_ on Dean—but even with the barrier of his sturdy frame between them, it still almost feels like Sam is the one fucking Lisa. He can’t escape the salacious thought, no matter how he tries to lose himself in the feel of his brother. Against him. Around him. Sam tightens his grip on Dean’s sides and thrusts into him, _hard_ , the motion driving him deeper into his wife’s body, and Lisa lets out a surprised cry, the sound slipping from her lips despite herself. Sheer physical sensation. Unexpected pleasure brought on solely from the movement of Sam’s hips. Quiet, but unmistakable.

Sam can feel his skin heat at the lust it rouses in him. The conflicting antagonism and satisfaction mixing poorly, but only fueling the fire in his loins. The queen may rather he didn’t exist, but he can make her feel things, anything he wants, in the most _explicitly_ intimate way. Completely in control of both of them.

—Until that same physical union turns out to be a double-edged sword.

Dean lets out a quiet groan on one of Sam’s brief pauses, a searching stutter of his hips that has nothing to do with him and everything to do with the woman lying beneath him, and Sam feels it like a spike of red-hot steel through his own chest. Blistering and hateful and agonizing. Dean deriving pleasure from his wife’s body, like he must do every night that he visits her.

Sam had privately nurtured images of dispassionate duty in his own mind, to soothe the pangs of bitter hurt he’d feel each time his brother left him. Of Dean being cold and emotionless in the act. A means to an heir.

This proof otherwise is almost too much to bear.

He feels a primal, shameful urge to prove his claim rise within his chest. To _hurt_ in return. To redirect Dean’s attention onto him, like when it’s only the two of them. Sam could do it. He knows he could, if he tried. The king has never made any secret of loving him the most and Sam knows Dean’s inclinations better than any other living soul. A few harsher thrusts, a few grazes of his teeth in the right area would tip his brother into unthinking pleasure. Would remind the queen how irrelevant she really is, how much Dean prefers _his_ touch in direct competition…just to sate Sam’s own jealousy.

It’s cruel and it’s heartless and he would like to think that such an emotion is beneath him, but Sam might choke on his own hypocrisy if he tried.

Because he knows that she loves him. No matter how Lisa tries to harden her heart—and she _must_ try—she still can’t help her feelings for Dean, deep and lingering and painful. And how could she not? Sam knows she would see the same in his gaze, were their positions reversed.

The realization hits him like a slow wave. The reluctant empathy creeping up on him like frothy foam over his back, then receding again to leave nothing but salt-crusted regret.

She _does_ see the same in his gaze, as their eyes finally catch over Dean’s shoulder. As Sam finally _looks_ at the woman he’s been hating and fleeing and _fearing_ ever since her arrival on their shores. And, suddenly, there is something beautiful strung between them. A commonality Sam’s been refusing to let himself see. All of his ugly, bitter spite shrivels away at the brief flash of connection in Lisa’s wide eyes. They are one and the same, him and his brother’s queen. They always have been. Only a spin of the wheel dictating their relative fates, landing Dean’s love in his lap instead of hers.

How easily could it have been the other way around? In some other world, perhaps Sam is the one who sleeps alone every night, counting down the minutes until his husband decides to grace him with a rare visit. Until he gets to feel alive again for one solitary moment of ecstasy. The bitter thought curdles his stomach and he tears his eyes away again, like a coward, hiding his face in the crook of his brother’s shoulder. Lisa is stronger than he is. A better ruler. He does not think he would be able to go on if their situations were reversed. Certainly not with the grace and fortitude that the queen constantly displays.

But maybe she’d seen something in him too, because Lisa slides her hand up Dean’s side, curving gently around his ribs, the backs of her fingers brushing against Sam’s abdomen every time he thrusts forward. Intentional, this time.

It’s Dean that drives him to orgasm, the sweltering grip around his throbbing cock relentlessly urging him to ecstasy, but Lisa’s capitulation is the final touch that tips him over the edge. Sam comes with a drawn-out, strangled moan—sooner than he’d like, too used to receiving—but Dean lets out a wrecked sound of his own at the feel of it, dropping his head to Lisa’s bare shoulder and shuddering around Sam’s length. Each twitch of clenching muscle milking him dry and overly sensitive. He clings to Dean through it all, panting against his sweat-tacky skin.

The inexorable anxiety creeps up on him far too soon though, gnawing at the aura of his afterglow. He hadn’t managed to hold out long enough and Dean and Lisa aren’t done yet. They don’t have any continued need for him now, and Sam has nothing left to offer. Leaving him with nothing to do but watch from afar. It’s every single thing he was fearing about tonight, and it’s all his fault.

Thankfully, the self-consciousness doesn’t manage to carve too deep a hollow out of his chest before Dean is reaching back to latch a hand around his thigh, squeezing tight to prevent him from slipping away. Like he’d _known_. And Sam is only able to breathe normally again at his brother’s touch. The concern, the _want_ , in the gesture piercing straight through his fear like a sanctified arrow. This isn’t about him. What’s important here, tonight, is Dean’s release. Lisa’s conception. The life-giving seed this entire experiment hinges on. Sam pulls out, slower, to make it crystal clear he isn’t going anywhere, then slips his fingers back into his brother, painting through the mess of his own release. Replacing his softening cock with the harder shove of his wrist. Stroking Dean’s inner walls to the same rhythm he’d set earlier.

“Fuck. _Sammy_ ,” he whispers, strained, through his teeth.

Sam drops his head to rest against the back of Dean’s neck, lets his eyelids flutter shut, and doesn’t move from that spot. Keeping the point of connection even as Dean fucks into his wife. As Sam fucks Dean into his wife. With just the tips of his fingers.

He comes a few minutes later, pulsing deep inside of her with a smothered cry and a bruising clench of his arms, and Sam doesn’t know which one of them had done it. He forces himself not to dwell on the thought. Even as he slips himself out of his brother’s body once more.

Dean descends on Lisa before the aftershocks have even finished making their way through him. Bombarding her with his lips and tongue—unrelentingly determined—until she comes again with a strained whimper, her pulsing walls pulling his brother’s release deeper into her womb. Every element necessary for conception.

Sam quietly draws back at the conclusion of their arrangement. He’s done his part. Fulfilled his promise to his brother. Gone above and beyond to make amends with his queen. He surreptitiously wipes his hand off on one corner of the ornate duvet. Gets himself as presentable as possible as he scans the dark room for his discarded trousers, feeling more naked now than he had with his cock jammed inside of the other man.

Dean, for his part, has his attention entirely focused on Lisa, reaching over to bring one of her dainty hands up to his mouth. “Thank you,” he whispers into the skin. Then presses another kiss to the inside of her wrist. “Do you need a bed pillow?”

Lisa nods, apparently too conflicted for words at the moment, and Sam shifts up to standing as Dean rearranges the covers to shield her from view. She mildly bats away his mother-henning, but accepts the pillow he hands her a moment later, positioning it under her own lower back. Letting him help her raise her knees up under the brocaded blankets as she lays supine. The spell is over. Their covenant concluded for the night, as Sam watches his brother tend to his wife.

He turns away to locate his trousers instead, slipping them on quick and efficient. He doesn’t belong here. Not in this room. _This isn’t about him_. But he can’t leave without causing even more of a scene than he would by standing around awkwardly. Any attempt on his part to sneak out would come off as rude and selfish. An immature tantrum at worst.

“Sammy,” Dean calls softly from the bed.

He can’t turn around. Can’t force himself to. He just prays that his continued inattention simply reads as him being invested in finding his clothing.

“Sam,” Dean says again, followed by the muted pad of his bare footsteps across the chamber’s thick rug.

Sam finally manages to corral his expression into one neutral enough to turn around, but his chest still feels too tight until he’s certain that his brother’s attention is placed solely on him. Dean doesn’t kiss him in front of his queen, despite the noticeable desire in his eyes. He hasn’t all night—not cruel enough for that, at least—but he does lay a claiming hand over the center of his chest. His warm, calloused fingers calming the pounding of Sam’s nerves.

“Are you good?” he checks softly, too quiet to carry across the room.

“Are we—?” Sam starts, even as something inside of him flinches at the thought of laying his own vulnerability bare. “Are we retiring to bed after this?” he asks, his voice more meek than he’d like. “ _Our_ bed?”

There’s another flicker of contrition in Dean’s eyes before he shoves it away again. “Yes,” he says after a moment, honest affection in his voice.

And that’s enough. Sam cannot truly say he adored the evening, but he knows he’d do it again. In a heartbeat, if Dean asked. “Then I’m good,” he answers him. He lets his gaze wander back over to Lisa, tilting his head to acknowledge the reclining queen. “Is there anything I can do? To help?”

Dean grants him a grateful look, although there’s subtle amusement in it too. Perhaps he’s correct in assuming the remaining jealousy Sam’s trying so hard to overcompensate for. “Is there anything the prince can get for you, Milady?” he asks louder, conveying Sam’s message across the bedchamber.

Lisa reflexively makes to shake her head, then seems to reconsider after a slow moment. This was an attempt to meet each other halfway, after all. “Perhaps a cool compress,” she suggests tiredly. “It’s gotten rather warm in here.”

Sam nods and makes to retrieve the rest of his garments. He dresses swiftly and slips through their secret door and back into his quarters without sparing Dean a parting look. His brother had already glided back over to sit at the edge of Lisa’s bed the moment she had spoken, anyway. Focusing on the task at hand is easier than dwelling on more frivolous pettiness. It would take a far more churlish man than Dean could ever be to ignore his wife in a moment of need. There’s nothing for Sam to fear losing. Not from such a simple act of chivalry.

He still makes it to the washroom and back in half the time it usually takes him.

Dean has tugged his trousers back on by the time Sam re-enters the room, though they remain distractingly unlaced. He stands up to meet him at his approach, shifting uncomfortably as he gets to his feet, and Sam can’t help the smug sense of pride that flashes over him at the sight. He tries to wipe it from his face before his brother catches it, but Dean pins him with a skeptical side-eye as he passes the washcloth over to Lisa.

“You,” he says, wiping off his damp hand on his thigh, “are easier to read than one of your books.” He opens his mouth to say something else, then seems to think better of it—wrapping a gentle hand around Sam’s elbow to guide him farther away from the bed. _Ah, a private conversation then_. “You were quiet, earlier,” Dean says under his breath, the instant they’re far enough away. He tilts his head back at Lisa to underscore his point. “Far more than usual.”

Sam doesn’t have anything to say to that, not anything his brother would want to hear, anyway, so he simply turns his head to watch the fire for a while. “Dean, if you’ve changed your mind. If you’d rather remain here tonight, with your wife—”

Dean grips hard around his arm to forcibly cut off the dark curl of his thoughts. “No,” he says firmly, just the merest shadow of hurt in his eyes. “None of this now.” He takes a breath, then reaches up to trail the backs of his knuckles down the arch of Sam’s cheek. Slow, like he’s something precious. A bare sliver of affection, harmless enough, even with Lisa in the room. “None of this ever,” he announces quietly. _Final_.

Dean’s gaze lingers even as Sam cut his eyes away, and he knows he’s being foolish.

“Not ever, little brother.”

He nods.

Dean brings his palm down to curl around the base of his neck, resting reassuring and possessive against the tense muscle there. Then he lets it slip away a second after that, ever mindful of Lisa’s presence. _And speaking of…_ “Lis,” he says, turning back to his wife, “If there’s nothing else you need at the moment—”

“I’m fine, Dean,” she interrupts him, even before he can spit the excuse out. “Goodnight.” Her words are to the point, but not cold, and Dean seems to take it as a blessing.

He nods at the dismissal, sliding his hand down to press against Sam’s lower back, but Sam stays where he is, standing unmoving before the fireplace even as Dean tries to steer him along. The perfunctory confusion swiftly turns to recognition, a grudging understanding in the brief tension that flickers across his face. Good. Sam’s not sure he’d be able to explain if he had to put it into words. Dean squeezes at his hip, and then leaves him where he is, slipping through their secret paneling with only a brief, backwards glance. As he returns to their chambers, alone.

For the moment, at least.

Sam lets out a long exhale of relief, even as he second-guesses the impulsive decision.

The door between these two rooms is the only thing standing between Sam and his brother’s vital touch. The very thing he’s so desperately been craving this entire evening. As soon as he crosses that threshold, Dean will take him into his arms, into their bed, and grace him with affectionate caresses and teasing words. Mock him for his lack of faith in him, even as he does what he can to soothe the collateral hurt. Give him everything he needs, everything he’s been _aching_ for. But…Sam finds he cannot leave the evening behind just yet.

He hesitates for a moment more, losing himself in the hypnotic dancing of the flames, before deliberately stepping back over to where Lisa is resting. Carefully planting himself at the edge of the bed. She doesn’t seem to be surprised by his presence though, or his presumption.

They sit together in shared silence for a while, the atmosphere more companionable than Sam would ever have guessed it could be.

“I’m not sure who should be thanking whom here,” he says finally.

Lisa does not say anything in response, but she smiles weakly. Genuine and weary. And just like that, Sam knows the ice between them has begun to thaw. Like the first sprig of green curling out of a spring snow bank. He turns to grace her with a look of understanding and receives one in return. A little more strained than his, perhaps, but it’s a connection nonetheless.

They will never love each other. That certainty couldn’t be more clear. They may never even come to fully enjoy each other’s company, but Sam respects this woman with a fierceness that borders on awe. And he hopes that in time, Lisa may one day grow to feel something similar for him.

Despite what either of them want, or even could have predicted, they are partners in more than one measure. They will be for as long as they live. And he’d meant what he’d said earlier. He wouldn’t trust his brother, or his kingdom, to any soul other than her.

“Do you need anything else, Majesty?” he asks. Sincere.

But Lisa just lets out a long sigh of her own. “Go to bed, Sam,” she orders him gently, and there’s far more forgiveness in it than he would have suspected.

Sam finally bids his queen goodnight; but as he gets up to pass through the entrance to his own chambers, he can’t help one lingering, backwards glance himself.

And he could _swear_ that the ever-present weight upon his shoulders seems just the slightest bit lighter than it was before.

 

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Title taken from King Crimson's "The Court of the Crimson King"
> 
> "Folamh" is the Gaelic term for Empty.


End file.
